Episode 01: Alternate Caretaker
by Soledad
Summary: Pilot episode to a rather unusual Voyager AU series. There will be many more following. WIP.
1. Chapter 1: The Badlands

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

CHAPTER 00: A SHORT INTRODUCTION 

I know that introductions are usually boring and people tend to skip them and get to the actual story. I'm guilty of doing so myself, occasionally.

However, at this particular time it seemed necessary to explain to my potential readers what I'm doing here, so please bear with me and read it. That would spare you reading a story you probably won't like and spare me the objections afterwards.

What is this all about? 

So, first and foremost, **this is an AU. A rather extreme one, at that; showing _Voyager in a way I'd have liked it to be, contrary to how it actually turned out. This particular story is the pilot of a whole series of rewritten episodes that will follow. Yes, it's going to be a monster project. Original parts will be few and far between, and I'll follow the timeline of canon – with major plot twists, character deaths, "avoiding" canonical character deaths and importing characters from other Star Trek series._**

Why am I doing this? 

For me, _Voyager_ is the show of missed opportunities. It had so much promise when it first hit the air – but so much of it hasn't been used. I wanted to bring back those wasted opportunities and to give certain characters a chance to shine. Also, you can expect to see more of the Hirogen, Species 8472, and the Ocampa around the female Caretaker. What you are **not** going to find in this whole series is Q (in any incarnation), the Doctors head trips (I prefer organic characters, sorry), and Borg that could be beaten by Janeway single-handedly. Oh, there will be Borg all right. They will be a little different, though.

And finally, the warnings 

As I've already said, this is an AU. The familiar titles and situations shouldn't mislead you – this will be a very different series from what you've seen on TV. A lot darker, actually. Also, if you are a Janeway-fan, or a fan of the canon pairings, this series is probably not the right thing for you.

Please, take these warnings into consideration. I have zero tolerance for people who willingly read stories they know they won't like and complain afterwards.

All the others – enjoy!

CHAPTER ONE: THE BADLANDS 

**Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.**

**Rating: PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.**

**Author's notes: This pilot novel follows loosely L.A. Graf's novelization to the pilot episode. Most dialogue is from the episode itself, unless it concerns the character's past or belongs to an original character or to one that's canonically not supposed to be here. However, this whole series is an AU and should be read as one.**

My heartfelt thanks go to Brigid for beta reading.

A wave of red light washed over the cramped bridge of the small spaceship. The alarms screamed like the horrified cries of a dying animal as the superior firepower of the Cardassian vessel hit the _Crazy Horse, rattling the already battered frame of the ship mercilessly. Chakotay, ignoring the rising temperature on the bridge, tried to hold himself in his pilot's chair by grabbing its base with his ankles, and asked himself for the umpteenth time, why on Earth wouldn't the seats on a spaceship have safety belts. Inertial dampers were fine, but in situations like this, no real use._

_Once we get back to our base, this will be the first thing I'll be looking into, he promised himself, while tapping another rapid sequence on his panel. Not for the first time. And he knew better than anyone that – once they reached the base – he wouldn't have the time to spare for such minor inconveniences. Cell leaders never did._

He took his responsibilities as a leader seriously – he always had. Otherwise he wouldn't have reached the rank of full Commander and been awarded a full professorship at Starfleet Academy at such a relatively young age. He knew his priorities in every given situation, and he followed them ruthlessly – toward himself and toward others if he had to. That was why he concentrated on flying the _Crazy Horse_ right now, instead of looking back to see how his crew was faring. They would deal with the wounded later… _if_ there was anyone left to deal with.

The ship's engines gave some ominous sound, and for a minute he felt the icy grip of fear around his heart, but then the faithful equipment barked into life again, and the _Crazy Horse spiraled off the line of fire at an oblique angle._

Not for long, unfortunately. The maneuver wasn't even finished when another blast of destructive power flashed across the viewscreen, blinding them all momentarily. And this time the deadly tremor hit the hull so hard that Chakotay had to grab the console in front of him, or he'd have been hurled out of his chair.

"Direct hit," his weapons officer – a black Vulcan from the Forge, the hottest desert area on his home planet – reported calmly. His ebony skin made Suvuk almost invisible on the darkened bridge, but his composed face would look the same in full light anyway. "Shields at sixty percent…"

"A fuel line has ruptured!" After the deep, grave voice of the Vulcan, Torres' almost sounded shrill. "Attempting to compensate."

Another torpedo struck the belly of the _Crazy Horse – not a hit, but close enough to make the whole deck tremble under their feet. Torres gave a frustrated snort and said something rude in Klingonese, while kicking the panel viciously._

"Dammit! We're barely maintaining impulse. I can't get any more out of her.."

Chakotay had no time for one of his half-Klingon engineer's famous temper tantrums. He could sense the next shot coming, and tried desperately to make a turn fast enough to avoid it, without blowing out their already damaged engine completely.

"Be creative!" he replied through gritted teeth.

Torres threw him a glance that could have melted an ice comet. "How am I supposed to be 'creative' with a thirty-nine-year-old rebuilt engine?" Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. Good. At least she wasn't having a screaming fit.

The intervention of his enemy saved Chakotay from the need to give an answer that he, quite frankly, didn't have.

"Maquis ship!" The grey, slightly scaled face of a middle-aged Cardassian male appeared on the viewscreen, replacing the starscape. "This is Gul Evek of the Cardassian Fourth Order. Cut your engines and prepare to sur…"

Damn! After the last communication with the runabout the channel must have been left open. Chakotay killed it with the heel of his hand, hoping that their lone ally had been smart enough to flee already. Starfleet's advanced tactical training had to be good for _something._

"Initiating evasive pattern omega…," he warned his crew. Something behind him got loose with a thump and a hiss of flame. Chakotay tried to duck from the rain of sparks, but they were unavoidable as he keyed the sequence. "Mark!"

The ship made a disturbingly sluggish jerk – then it finally started to speed away. Chakotay smiled bitterly. At the end, it always came to this: running. No matter how brave or skilled they were, they were also hopelessly outgunned and outnumbered. In his honest moments he admitted to himself that they had no real chance of winning.

This would never make him give up, though. The Federation might have abandoned their colonies for political reasons, forgetting (or not caring) that it was people's lives they were dealing with as if they were plastic chips on a gambling table. Starfleet might have withdrawn its protection in order to Safeguard more strategically important places (like Bajor and the wormhole that led to the Gamma Quadrant). The colonists however were _not_ willing to give up the homes that had been theirs for generations.

They were determined to protect their colonies or die trying. And right now, the crew of the _Crazy Horse was closer to that second possibility._

But they could not die, not yet, not before they guided that runabout to one of the main bases. The pilot had crucial information that needed to reach the scattered leaders of the rebellion. For safety reasons, they had no central seat, nor a single information center. The small bases were little more than a workshop for ship maintenance and a food store. They _had_ to escort the runabout and its pilot deep into the Badlands, where – protected by violent plasma storms that only small, fast ships could outmaneuver – the main bases were hidden. Half a dozen of them in all. They didn't have the means to maintain more.

Nobody knew who the important courier was – even Chakotay himself. Mike Eddington's people said only that he would recognize him – or her. That, and the fact that s/he was piloting a runabout alone through the Badlands let him suspect one of the Starfleet sympathizers. There were more than the brass would like to admit, he knew that. The voice was that of a woman – or so he thought – but scrambled by a modifier. Whoever s/he was, s/he was no fool. That much was sure.

They received another hit from behind, and Suvuk reported with that uncanny Vulcan calm, "Shields at fifty percent."

_Spirits! They were not going to make it at this rate! Hands still at the controls, Chakotay shot an urgent look at Torres over his shoulder. "B'Elanna, I need more power!"_

"Okay, okay," she waved impatiently, creasing her ridged brow in concentration. Torres was an engineering genius, and she worked brilliantly under pressure or against impossible odds. Right now, she had both.

_Speaking of inspiration, Chakotay thought with grim humour._

"Okay," she said again, and Chakotay could almost see the lights going on in her mind like a Christmas tree, "take the weapons off-line. We'll transfer all power to the engines."

Suvuk lifted his head with one of his many non-expressions. This one clearly indicated his objections, with one elegant eyebrow arched politely.

"Considering the circumstances, I would question that proposal at this time," he said in what the crew of the _Crazy Horse called his 'stuffed manner'. Torres shot him a heated look._

"What does it matter?" she exploded. "We are not making a _dent_ in their shields anyway!" She turned back to Chakotay and added in a voice of pure acid. "You wanted 'creative'."

Another blast from the powerful Cardassian phasers burned into their weakening shields, and Chakotay was forced to turn back to his own console. He had to admit that Torres, as always when engineering problems were concerned, was absolutely right.

"Suvuk, shut down all the phaser banks," he ordered. Then, flicking a doubtful look at Torres over his shoulder, "If you can give me another thirty seconds at full impulse, I'll get us into the Badlands."

"The best of all possible options," Ken Dalby muttered unhappily, while working furiously on something under Torres' panel, "_and not a good one, at that."_

Chakotay didn't listen to him. His mind was already racing ahead, trying to construct a course that would navigate them through the maze of the plasma storm.

"Phasers off-line," Suvuk reported. And though his voice sounded just as gravely calm as always, everyone could feel his disapproval. Not that Chakotay cared…

"Throw the last photons at them," he snapped. "Then give me the power from the torpedo system"

"Acknowledged," Suvuk might not agree with his Captain, but he knew an order when he heard one. He activated the torpedo launchers with a flick of his dark hand. "Firing photons."

So calm. So efficient. Now, why would this very reaction – one that he had fully expected from the Vulcan, no less – give him an uneasy feeling? Chakotay shook his head in order to clear it a little, watching as their remaining torpedoes slammed into those impenetrable Cardassian shields. _We don't stand a chance_, he thought bitterly. _We never did._

"Are you reading any plasma storms ahead?" he asked Suvuk.

"One," the Vulcan replied. "Coordinates one-seven-one mark four-three."

That eerie feeling nearly overcame Chakotay again. Such calmness. Such efficiency. Now, what did _that remain him of?_

But this was not the time. He gave a single, short nod. "That's where I'm going."

The _Crazy Horse_ responded sluggishly to his commands. No wonder, actually. Torres kept the poor ship together by wizardry and sheer willpower alone. And he was about to take it into a field full of plasma storms. Dalby had been right – it was the best of all possible options, and _not_ a good one, at that.

Still, it had to be done. He could only hope that the runabout would be able to follow them in – and that the Cardassians wouldn't detect. In the plasma fields the small, moderately efficient cloaking device would be knocked out in no time.

He maneuvered the ship very carefully, all too obvious of her erratic response. They dropped down and starboard to evade the next charge, but a surge of unseen energy splashed against their shields nevertheless, throwing the ship around like a nutshell. _Are we hit again?_

"Plasma storm intensity increasing by fourteen percent…" Suvuk's eyes never left the sensor readings. There _was something to say about efficiency, after all. "… twenty… twenty-five…"_

_No hit, obviously. Good._

Chakotay could feel the growing fury of the space distortion through the responses of his ship. Actually, he _hoped for it. It was their only chance to get rid of the much larger, much more powerful Cardassian vessel. _

"Hold on!" he warned the others.

The violent crash of the storm battered their small ship just as badly as the Cardassian weapons had, but this was a power he could handle. The flares of electromagnetic fire crackled across the viewscreen like flaming whipcords, licking along their damaged shields like the fiery tentacles of some ancient monsters from the old legends. But he knew how _not to get eaten by the monster. He simply had to avoid straying too close to the heart of that fury._

_Easier said than done, he thought, dodging from the particularly violent charges. It was not an easy maneuver to weave their path between the grasping tendrils, but it was something he had become accustomed to. With grim satisfaction he realized that the Cardassians had not opened fire on them for several seconds. _Busy with keeping their mammoth ship together, most likely.__

Obviously, Suvuk noticed the fact as well, because he looked up from his tactical station and said as flatly as only a very surprised Vulcan could, "The Cardassian ship is _not reducing power. They're following us in."_

Chakotay frowned while navigating his ship neatly through a tear in the plasma that was barely wide enough to take them. _Take the camel through the eye of a needle, he thought, adding loudly and full of sarcasm, "Gul Evek must be feeling daring today."_

Hardly had he spoken when cold certainty hit him. The Cardassians were usually a lot more careful. If Gul Evek, known as one of the rather… moderate military leaders, was willing to risk his warship just to catch them, that could only mean that they knew of the importance of the particular mission the _Crazy Horse_ had been chosen to accomplish. They knew about the courier.

Somebody had given him/her away.

Somewhere in the scattered network of Maquis leaders there was a traitor. There could be no other explanation. Chakotay was not important enough to risk a Galor-class warship, just to capture him. Nobody aboard the _Crazy Horse_ was.

Suvuk transferred the view from his tactical sensors to one edge of the main screen, so that Chakotay could navigate the _Crazy Horse and watch the struggle of the huge, mean-looking Cardassian warship against the plasma discharges that racked it from all sides at the same time. The big ship twisted and jumped, still in a clumsy attempt to follow the same intricate pattern that the __Crazy Horse had flown only seconds earlier. Of course, with a ship of _that_ size it was a rather… hopeless endeavour._

"I can't wait to see what happens when they try to squeeze that mammoth through the plasma needle _we could barely pass through," Chakotay said with a wolfish grin. Even Torres barked a short laugh – more a snort, actually, but still a sign of grim delight. Only Suvuk watched the scenario with the same detached interest he paid all events he faced._

The Cardassian ship suddenly bucked sideways, hit by a hungry tendril of plasma fire on its underside. This threw it directly towards another tentacle, that swallowed one of its nacelles like a jellyfish, and the nacelle exploded into a huge ball of fire and debris. The ship turned upside down from the brutal force of the impact, spinning like an Orion wing-slug during mating, and drifted off visual, leaving a long trail of burning plasma.

"They're sending out a distress signal on all Cardassian frequencies," Suvuk reported. Chakotay shrugged.

"Which means most of them are still alive."

"Too bad," Dalby commented _sotto voce, but still loud enough for everybody to hear. Several nods expressed complete agreement, Chakotay's among them. Dalby might have been an asshole at times, but his priorities were set just right._

"Evek was a fool to take a ship that size into the Badlands," Torres added with a derisive snort and a thump of her deceivingly small fist on her panel. Dark Latino eyes under heavy Klingon brows glinted with evil pleasure.

"_Anyone_'s a fool to take a ship into the Badlands," Chakotay answered her with a not-quite-convincing sober expression on his face; actually, he wasn't able to hide his grin completely. Torres grinned back, but coming from her it seemed rather threatening – her sharp teeth reminded everyone that she was part Klingon, and anyone with half a functioning brain cell knew that if a Klingon shows her teeth that means trouble.

Still grinning, Chakotay activated the comm link again. It was time to call the runabout. "_Crazy Horse to _Shenandoah_, please reply."_

For a moment, there was only static, and he began to fear that they had lost the courier's ship in the fight. But then that strangely modified voice answered. "_Shenandoah_ here. Go on."

"We shook the Cardassians off," Chakotay informed the unknown pilot. "Time to return to base. We'll lead, please follow us."

"Acknowledged," came the crisp answer, then the connection was broken.

So calm. So efficient. So – Starfleet. There could not be any doubt of _that_. The pilot had been able to follow them through the plasma storm, without shields (as the cloaking device swallowed too much energy to keep up more than the most basic navigational deflectors) and remain unharmed during the whole fight. Not only Starfleet, but most likely one of Starfleet's better people.

It was somewhat comforting to know that they had such an ally. Chakotay shook his head, trying to focus, and gave Suvuk a quick glance.

"Can you plot a course through these plasma fields?" he asked. Sure, the Vulcan was a mediocre pilot, but – like all Vulcans – rather good with sensors. And Chakotay didn't mind letting him show off his skills. It meant a short break for himself.

"The storm activity is typically widespread in this vicinity," Suvuk answered, stating the obvious in true Vulcan manner. He checked the few sensors that were still functioning. "I can plot a course," he added, "but I am afraid it will require an indirect route."

Chakotay shrugged. Did it matter anymore? With no warp drive and barely enough impulse to keep going, even the runabout could have easily outrun them – but for now, they were safe. All they needed to do was to reach one of the small repair bases placed on the Terikof Belt planetoids, where they would patch the ship together once again.

"We are in no hurry," he replied tiredly. As soon as the autopilot clicked in he rose from his seat and stretched his aching back muscles. He watched Torres working furiously at her station, with the competent help of Ken Dalby and that young, sad-faced Bajoran boy they had rescued from a prison camp only months before. So far, the boy hadn't uttered a single word, but he had apparently taken a liking to Dalby and become his shadow. To everybody's surprise, Dalby accepted the responsibility without a word  and had grown fiercely protective of the kid.

Nobody knew what the boy – Gerron was his name, Chakotay remembered – went through in that prison camp, not even Dalby. Not exactly, that is. But he was found in one of the _special cells the Cardassians usually reserved for their pleasure slaves, and his condition – broken and bleeding and covered with the crude remnants of older injuries – left little to the imagination._

By all counts, he should have died. But thank to Jabara, DS9's head nurse and long-time Maquis sympathizer, the kid could profit from the benefits of advanced Federation medical technology. Secretly, of course. Jabara had to lie to Dr. Bashir, and she even lifted some supplies from the Infirmary for Gerron's future treatment. She could have lost her job and even been sent to the brig for that, but she didn't care, may the spirits bless her big heart.

So Gerron was healed and he chose Dalby as a substitute family. He never left Dalby's side, helped him with his work and generally did everything Chakotay told him to do. He just never looked at anyone directly. And he still didn't speak. Not a single word.

Chakotay sighed and acknowledged the arrival of the cleanup crew with a slight, thankful nod. It was a welcome noise – so normal, so soothing. His second-in-command and childhood friend, Gregor Ayala, stepped up to him with the damage reports. No casualties, Now, _that was a relief. Who'd have thought that they'd get away with only a few minor injuries?_

"Sito is looking after the wounded," Ayala informed him. "She has field medic training."

Chakotay nodded. He knew he could always count on Sito Jaxa, another late addition to his crew.

Though freed from the same prison camp as Gerron, Sito was an entirely different matter. Bajoran as well, but there the similarities ended. Sito was eleven years older than Gerron (who barely passed his sixteenth summer) and had been one of the best and brightest cadets at Starfleet Academy. Until that horrible accident. But even after that, she worked hard to redeem herself. She wanted to prove that she learned from her mistake. And she succeeded. She had won the trust and appreciation of none other than the famous Jean-Luc Picard.

Jean-Luc Picard, who sent her on a suicide mission as a sign of his approval.

Oh sure, it _was_ in the best interest of the Federation; – only Chakotay didn't trust the Federation anymore. And neither did Sito, apparently. Otherwise, brave and eager Starfleet Ensign that she used to be, she would have returned home, accepted a medal of honour and continued to serve on big and shiny starships – like the newest _Enterprise._

She chose to join the Maquis instead. As relief pilot and field medic, she was invaluable aboard the _Crazy Horse. And it didn't hurt that she'd apparently lost her ability to fear anything. Whenever Chakotay looked into her smooth, young face, he couldn't suppress an involuntary shudder. Those pretty eyes of hers were so old and barren at times it seemed as if she went through life by sheer momentum only._

"Curious…"

Suvuk's voice jerked him out of his thoughts. The Vulcan, working on his controls with the same detached efficiency as always, seemed to speak to himself – which was a highly unusual thing for him to do.

"What is it?" asked Chakotay. He didn't like surprises these days, especially not in the Badlands. Everything out of the ordinary could mean lethal danger for his crew.

Suvuk, one eye still on the readings, gave him his best Vulcan eyebrow. "We have just passed through some kind of coherent tetryon beam."

Chakotay's chest tightened. _Could it be some new Cardassian weapon? If so, that would mean that not even the Badlands were a safe hiding place anymore. In fact, that would explain why Gul Evek took the considerable risk of following them into the plasma field. To test the new weapon, most likely._

"Source?" he asked, hurrying back to his pilot's seat. He only stopped for a moment, to take a look at Suvuk's readings.

"Unknown," the Vulcan replied. "But there appears to be a massive displacement wave moving toward us."

Displacement wave? Were the Cardassians trying to hurl them out of the Badlands by force?

"Another storm?" Chakotay asked, hoping fiercely that he was wrong. But Suvuk shook his head.

"It is not a plasma phenomenon. The computer is unable to identify it." Considering the age and shape of their computer, this wasn't exactly a surprise, of course.

"Put it onscreen," Chakotay ordered.

Suvuk switched to back view again. The rippling tentacles of the plasma storm gave room for a thick wall of blinding, destructive energy that ploughed through the storm behind them like a hot knife through butter.

"At current speeds," Suvuk added placidly, "it is going to intercept us in less than thirty seconds."

_Oh, Spirits, no! With a single, desperate leap, Chakotay swung away from Suvuk's station and landed in his own seat. Pretty hard._

"Anything left in those impulse generators, B'Elanna?" he called back to Torres, who was struggling with her console already, cursing under her breath in several languages.

"We'll find out," came her terse reply. "Sooner than we'd like."

"It is still exceeding our speed," Suvuk warned. _Oh great! Just great!_

Chakotay switched off the autopilot. "Maximum power."

"You've got it," Torres replied with a scowl, knowing all too well that even in the best possible shape, the _Crazy Horse's maximum power would not be enough to outrun that wave of massive destruction. And they were about as far from their best possible shape as one could imagine._

The _Crazy Horse_ lurched forward with a last, desperate effort – but it was not enough, simply not enough. Chakotay's hands froze on the panel as he felt that incredible wave of energy rolling toward them, knowing that his poor, battered ship won't stand a chance.

After everything they'd been through, in the end they were lost.

"The wave is continuing to accelerate," the deep voice of the Vulcan sounded like some bizarre funeral announcement. "It will intercept us in eight seconds… five…"

And then the blinding white light engulfed them all, and the ship was hurled away like a dry leaf in a hurricane.

The last thing Chakotay heard, before losing consciousness, was a high-pitched, keening wail from Gerron's direction.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**Note:**

I'm sure everyone knows who "Suvuk" actually is. I found it highly unlikely that Tuvok would use his true name in an undercover operation – especially having taught at Starfleet Academy for sixteen years.


	2. Chapter 2: Auckland

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.**

**Rating: PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.**

Many thanks to Brigid for beta reading.

CHAPTER TWO: AUCKLAND 

He was lying on a gliding board in the motor fleet repair bay, under a long, squat atmospheric flyer with a power coil the size of a small planet. It was an ugly piece of equipment, for sure, but highly efficient, and his fingers itched to fly it instead of performing dull repairs.

Sometimes the urge to flee was almost overwhelming. With this very machine he was working to repair – without obvious supervision, at that – he could have fled the island any moment if he chose. Not even the electronic anklet locked to his right foot could have stopped him. Sure, it could indentify him wherever he fled, but in the end it couldn't prevent his escape. Not with piloting skills like his.

Sometimes he could barely resist the urge to flee.

But, of course, they would find him. They would find him before he could remove the anklet, before he could find a way to leave Earth and disappear in some grey zone where he wouldn't stand out like a sore thumb. Where he wouldn't carry the burden of his name around.

They would find him and bring him back, and this time he would have to return to the normal barracks instead of the secure wing. Then the harassment would start anew. And this time the guards would not save him from the hands of his inmates.

It was better not to piss off the guards. At least they would leave him alone in exchange for exemplary behaviour. No, he had no desire to be beaten up in the shadowy corridors of the barracks again. He could live without the pain of being unable to sit down properly for a week after a particularly… crowded visit in the common washroom. So, it was better to behave.

The Auckland Penal Settlement was an enlightened Federation prison. It was set up on New Zealand's Northern Island and looked more like part of a national monument than a rehabilitation facility. The dratted place even had a _park_, with lush, green trees, well-tended walkways, birds and free-living animals. The idea had been to reintegrate the detainees into society again, after they had served their sentences.

Of course, if one was the son of an Admiral (who had signed the much-hated Federation-Cardassian Treaty, no less); known to have caused the death of his best friends by pilot error; an ex-Maquis (thus a traitor to the almighty Federation) and too pretty for his own good, things could get a little… complicated.

Especially when it was known that the Admiral wouldn't move a finger to rescue him. He had been disowned publicly, with the TriVid cameras running all the time during the court-martial.

The Admiral was not one to accept mistakes. Or weakness.

So, he was practically free prey. And his inmates in this oh-so-enlightened Federation prison used every opportunity to remind him of _that_. It was a lesson he had learned _very_ quickly.

There were the former Starfleet people, imprisoned for crimes against regulations, for mutiny or for violating the Prime Directive. But still Starfleet, to a certain extent. For them, he was a liar, a coward and a traitor. The lowest of scum. The deepest level possible.

Then there were the captured Maquis, imprisoned as war criminals. For them, he was the son of the Admiral, one of those people who gave away their homes to the Cardassians for political reasons. A mercenary, who failed his first mission in the service of their organization, who probably even betrayed them. Why not, actually? Once a liar, always a liar.

And finally, there were the common criminals: smugglers, black market weapons dealers, spies and the likes. Mindless brutes, mostly, constantly after him for his pretty face – and for other body parts.

The first few months had been hell. At first he had tried to fight off his attackers – until he understood that no-one would come to his help, and all his struggling would earn him was a savage beating on top of being used and violated. After that, he simply let it happen. That was the only way to survive.

And he was determined to survive. Not that he had some grand outlook before his eyes – those times were over – but he wanted to _fly_ again. Even if he had to offer his skills to some shady Ferengi trader.

Things got a little better when the facility got that new Vulcan doctor. Vulcans being the supremely controlled species that they were, Dr. Sorik didn't share his predecessor's illogical prejudices, and after having studied Tom's medical file, removed him to the secure wing by personal authority. The guards in that wing had no sense of humor and preferred exceptional behaviour from the inmates, but once these conditions were fulfilled, they didn't tolerate harassment. It was their duty to keep the detainees under their supervision safe, and they took that duty seriously. He didn't need to visit the infirmary with injuries caused by random "accidents" anymore.

So no, risking this halfway endurable existence with some foolish attempt to flee – an attempt that was doomed in the long run anyway – was not an option. Still, the urge was sometimes very strong. He needed all his remaining strength to resist.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A shadow appeared in the periphery of his vision and he felt the all-too-familiar panic rising in his stomach, knowing that none of the guards were close. But he forced himself to calm down. He had a plasma welder in his hand, after all – this time he would defend himself, regardless of the consequences.

"Tom Paris?" a rather… weird voice asked from above. At first he couldn't decide whether it belonged to a woman or a young, adolescent boy. The narrow shape of the shadow was no indication, either.

He switched off his tool and pushed himself out from under the machinery's belly, flicking up the visor that protected his eyes, to look at his unexpected visitor.

It _was_ a woman, after all. A thin woman in a Starfleet uniform with Captain's pips on her collar, so crisp and efficient looking that Tom suddenly became acutely aware of his sweat-drenched coveralls. She wore her hair in a funny-looking bun and her prominent chin prevented her from being even remotely attractive (not to mention her lipstick which was at least three shades too dark). But her cold eyes showed that despite her looks she was a force to be taken into serious consideration.

"Kathryn Janeway," she identified herself. She didn't offer her hand, of course, and for his part, Tom didn't bother to stand up, either. Starfleet was no longer his concern. They couldn't harm him any more.

"I served with your father on the _Al-Batani," she continued in that weird voice of hers, and Tom felt his stomach tightening again. He thought the Admiral had written him off by that public disowning. What the hell was the old man up to? "I wonder if we could go somewhere and talk."_

Talk. She wanted to _talk. Just like that. With the lowliest pariah of the Federation. Despite being one of the Admiral's little puppets. Now, why had he the impression that there had to be a catch in that?_

"About what?" Tom asked warily. Still making no attempt to get on his feet. He was _not_ about to walk into another trap.

"About a job we'd like you to do for us," she answered.

Now, _that_ was really funny. Tom laughed in a guarded manner, careful not to give away his true feelings. He had learned that around the Admiral at a very young age.

"I'm already doing a 'job'," he waved his hand toward the machine above him his voice mildly sarcastic, "for the _Federation."_

His attitude wasn't appreciated, he could see that much on her tightening face, but he couldn't care less. He was done with Starfleet. The only ones he had to keep in a benevolent mood were the guards of the secure wing.

"I've been told the Rehab Committee is very pleased with your work," she answered, clearly holding on to her tempers. "They've given me their approval to discuss this matter with you."

Oh. Some nice little blackmailing then. Cooperate, or the ones who protect you won't be pleased. Tom shrugged, admitting his defeat and got to his feet with a single, fluid motion.

"Then I guess I am yours," he said.

They walked through the park, and as soon as they were out of earshot from the other detainees, she picked up the conversation again. Finding the most unsuitable topic possible.

"Your father thought me a great deal," she said thoughtfully. "I was his science officer during the Arias Expedition."

Oh, great! Not only one of the Admiral's puppets, but one of his personal lapdogs, too! Could the day become any more miserable?

"You must be good," Tom replied, allowing a great deal of sarcasm to seep into his tone. "My 'father' only accepts the best and the brightest."

A category his own son obviously didn't fit. It surprised Tom how much it still hurt, after all those years.

Janeway didn't comment on his tone; in fact, she didn't as if she hadn't recognized it at all. Instead, she changed the topic and finally revealed her actual goal.

"I'm leaving on a mission to find a Maquis ship that disappeared in the Badlands a week ago," she began.

Guessing what was coming, Tom stiffened involuntarily, but kept his tone light. It was better to let her believe that he hadn't seen through the scheme.

"I wouldn't  if I were you," was all he replied.

She arched an almost Vulcan eyebrow at him. "Really?"

Tom nodded, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and patiently pointed out the obvious. "I've never seen a Federation starship that could maneuver through the plasma storms."

"You've never seen _Voyager," she answered, with a smug, proprietary overtone in that odd, scratchy voice of hers. "We'd like you to come along."_

_Oh, sure. Come along and betray the only people who let you fly after Caldik Prime, despite the fact that you were a drunk and a gambler. After all, once a traitor, always a traitor._

"You'd like me to lead you to my former 'colleagues'," Tom said in a mocking voice, not asking but stating the obvious. He was fed up with people thinking him a fool. Especially the Admiral's lapdogs. "I was only with the Maquis a few weeks before I was captured, Captain," he added dismissively. "I don't know where most of their hiding places are."

_And even if I knew, I wouldn't tell you, he thought. Among those Maquis was one of the very few people who ever treated him as if he mattered. But a glance at her raised chin warned him. This git wasn't one who'd take 'no' as an answer. He had to be careful._

"You know the territory better than anyone we've got," she countered.

Well that was true. He could lead her any way he wanted. Preferably away from the Maquis.

"What's so important about this particular Maquis ship?" he asked, suddenly suspicious. As annoying as the hit-and-run Maquis raiders might be, Starfleet never followed them so far into their own territory. It was too great a risk.

"My chief of security was on board. Undercover. He was supposed to report in twice during the last six days." Janeway paused, this time real concern in her cold eyes. "He didn't."

_A spy then. How interesting. Starfleet really went out of its way to protect that damn treaty. Placing a highly trained operative on one of the Maquis ships. Or maybe more than one. No wonder so many got captured lately._ Tom gave a derisive snort. _If they found that spy…_

"Maybe it's just your chief of security who's disappeared," he said, not quite able to hide his smug satisfaction about the possibility.

She looked as if he'd hit her. _Good. "Maybe," she agreed. They remained silent for a while. Then she picked up the conversation again._

"That ship was under the command of another former Starfleet officer named Chakotay." She paused again then added. "I understand you knew him."

He grinned at that, though his mind was racing.

"That's right." The _Crazy Horse! They planted a spy on the __Crazy Horse! If Greg was still aboard, and he would never leave Chakotay's side, they were childhood friends, then Tom __had to do something to save him from getting captured. He owed Greg that much… and more._

And regardless of what the Admiral might think, Tom Paris was a man who paid his debts, no matter the costs.

"The two of you didn't get along too well, I'm told," that scratchy voice said again, and Tom laughed bitterly. He could remember all too well how those warm, brown eyes turned to ice the moment Greg introduced them at Sandrine's, saying: 'This is Tom Paris'.

That he was a gambler, a drunk and at times on drugs wouldn't matter. But the Admiral's name mattered. It made sure that he'd never be one of _them_.

"Chakotay would tell you he left Starfleet on principle," Tom said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "To defend his home colony from the Cardassians. I, on the other hand, was forced to resign. He considered me a mercenary – willing to fight for anyone who could pay my bar bills."

Yes, Chakotay had made it quite clear what he thought of his newly-hired pilot. And Tom had been aware of his feelings. He was just surprised that it still hurt so much. Was it because the big Indian was Greg's best friend? Or because he couldn't help admiring and respecting Chakotay himself?

Whatever the reason might be, his chances with the Maquis were over. It was probably due to Janeway's carefully planted spy that Tom had been captured. Now he had to see that Greg didn't suffer the same fate. That Gía wouldn't lose her husband, and the two boys could keep their father.

"The trouble is," he said slowly, giving a very convincing shrug in that infuriating Paris manner that never missed its target, "he was _right_. So, I have no problem helping you track down my 'friends' in the Maquis, Captain. All I need to know is – what's in it for me?"

The disgust in her eyes almost made him squeal in delight. Direct hit, target destroyed. She really believed that he would help her to hunt down the only people who offered him a meager chance to get out of the gutter – even though they hated him. Just how stupid had one to be nowadays to make Captain in Starfleet? No wonder they were unable to wipe out the Maquis without help – from the inside or out.

"You help us find that ship," Janeway told him brusquely. "We help you at your next outmate review."

Yep, in any other situation it'd be tempting. But the way things were, he'd have to do everything to keep the dratted mission from succeeding – and thus cementing his way back into prison. This time it might not be the secure wing, even. But he owed Greg that much.

Janeway wasn't even close attention to his reactions. She was so damn sure she'd nailed him. And in any other case she might have been right.

"Officially, you'd be a Starfleet observer during the mission," she said, already planning the next step. And the one after that.

Well, he didn't really expect they'd allow him to fly that new and fancy starship of theirs. But acting insulted never hurt anything. It kept his normal façade, the one he showed to outsiders, in character.

"Observer?" he echoed in a convincingly hurt tone. "Hell, I'm the best damn pilot you could have!"

Ironically, it was true. But he doubted that she'd be impressed. And he was right.

"You'll be an observer," she repeated, pushing that prominent chin forth again in a manner that she mistakenly thought was intimidating. "When it's over, you'll be cut loose."

With that, she swirled around and marched away, flailing with her arms energetically as she strode. Tom shook his head, not sure if he should laugh or cry.

_When it's over, you'll be cut loose._

"The story of my life," he murmured half-jokingly.

There was some sad truth in that.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3: Small Talk Along the Way

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.**

**Rating: PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.**

**A/N: Referring to a question asked in a review: my dislike of Janeway the character has nothing to do with the actor who plays her. Actually, I find Kate Mulgrew rather charming, especially when she smiles. But that's a different matter entirely. :))**

As always, heartfelt thanks to Brigid for beta reading.

CHAPTER THREE: SMALL TALK ALONG THE WAY 

He sat through the long trip from Earth to Bajoran space in silence. _Before_ Caldik Prime, he'd have made friends in the first hour and would have been the center of the merry crowd in the second. Not that it would last longer than the journey itself – none of his acquaintances ever had, with the exception of the three people who died at Caldik Prime because of his error – but at least the journey would have been fun.

_After Caldik Prime, of course, no one in a crew transporter would even talk to him. Two years were too short a time to allow people to forget his face – it had been all over the news, for months: his court martial, his captivity, the Admiral's theatrical act of disowning him. He was branded for life._

Consequently, he sat alone all the way, reading an old-fashioned novel from the late 20th century: one of the adventures of Perry Rhodan. Reading a real book instead of a PADD novel earned him a few bewildered looks, of course, especially the ridiculously-coloured cover with its primitive holographic pictures, but he didn't really care. He had a secret passion for real books. They were – well, _real. They had a weight, a scent, touching them felt almost sensual. There was nothing that could be compared with them._

Of course, real copies – even replicated ones – were expensive. But he had bought his assortment of Perry Rhodan adventures _before the Admiral froze his accounts. And though they had no real literary value, they were the only possessions he had kept from his former life. He'd read them in Marseilles, finding some pleasant distraction in the ridiculous ideas 20th century people had about the future – it helped him forget his own misery. When he was hired by the Maquis he put the books into storage, and there they waited for him patiently while he was in prison. His only remaining friends._

He took the time to get them before boarding the crew transporter. If he truly got another chance at life, he wanted the only important things with him. If Janeway saw through his game, well, they could always go back to storage. Or go down with him.

He was _not_ going back to prison. That much was sure.

"Mr. Paris?"

A low, sensuous female voice coaxed him out of his thoughts. A small, but pleasantly trim woman stood next to his seat, her exotic accent, high brow and large, midnight eyes giving her away as a Betazoid. She wore a command section uniform, with a full Lieutenant's pips on her collar, and her lush, raven-black hair wound into a loose knot at the nape of her long, graceful neck.

"Lieutenant Stadi," she introduced herself. "I'll be your pilot. We'll part company with this transporter in ten minutes and continue by shuttle to DS9. If you'd follow me…?"

At the same moment he felt his mind being touched by a wordless mental greeting. He had met enough Betazoids to know that thy didn't share the Vulcan's reluctance to read other people's thoughts (without an invitation, at that), but he was surprised nevertheless. Most Betazoids simply invaded one's head to take a look around with the same casualness other species entered an art gallery or an information center. They never bothered to com in just to say hello – figuratively speaking.

"What was that for?" he asked, slightly confused by that soft mental touch. Stadi gave him a soft, mysterious smile as if she would see something other people couldn't.

"For you," she replied with gentle amusement. "You looked like you needed it."

"Needed _what_?" Tom asked in surprise.

"Encouragement," Stadi keyed in the code, and the huge doors of the hangar deck opened with a quiet _wooooooosh. "There we go."_

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The shuttle was the sort that cadets at the Academy called  "a Type-2 claustrophobia" – fast and easy to handle, and not very comfortable. But Stadi had been a shuttle pilot for years before signing up for _Voyager – her first deep space assignment. She knew the journey to Deep Space Nine would be a long and boring one – seven hours __are a long time – but she looked forward to it nevertheless. If this particular mission was accomplished, __Voyager could count on a scientific mission, and that was exactly what Stadi counted on, too. She wanted to qualify herself for a scientific career instead of sitting at the helm all her life. A lengthy mission in the Gamma Quadrant was potential heaven for someone with a strong interest in xenobiology._

But she had to deal with first things first – ferrying the Starfleet observer to Deep Space Nine where _Voyager was currently being prepared for the immediate, short-term mission: hunting down that particular Maquis vessel. Flying into the Badlands, if needed to be. So she could do nothing else but pilot the shuttle, no matter how monotonous and boring the job was._

Fortunately, her aunt Adah – one of the more powerful telepaths in the family – had taught her early on how to distract herself while fully concentrating on some dull work. So – while she quietly and efficiently piloted the shuttle, just as she had done hundreds of times before – she turned the part of her attention that wasn't needed to the nervous young man sitting in the co-pilot's chair.

For Tom Paris was undoubtedly nervous. Most people wouldn't have recognized it, as his mental shields worked surprisingly well for a human, but Stadi knew anxiety when she saw it.

First of all, he seemed uncomfortable in his rankless Starfleet uniform – something that Stadi could understand all too well. When might he have worn a uniform the last time? Most likely when he had been transported to his court-martial, after Caldik Prime. In a Starfleet shuttle. With manacles on his hands. And guards on both sides.

_Why could they not allow him to wear civilian clothes, she wondered. It was unnecessarily cruel to remind him of what he had lost. Of Caldik Prime. Of the court-martial. Of all that came afterwards. Oh yes, Stadi had done her homework and gathered all available information about her passenger._

Which was surprisingly little, considering Tom's rather… colourful background.

_I guess, being the son of an admiral – one of the most influential in Starfleet – does enhance the protection of privacy, she thought wryly, while flying the small ship and continuing the friendly banter with the young man at the same time._

She had to admit that he'd surprised her. After Captain Janeway had given her this assignment (and a short description of a cocky, arrogant, self-centered young man with an infuriating attitude), Paris turned out very different from the man she'd expected to meet.

Oh, sure, he played his role very well. _Too well for his own good, Stadi thought, while answering his coy feints and thrusts with brief, well-aimed ripostes. So well, indeed, that anyone who lacked some basic empathic abilities – or didn't care enough to dig deeper – would have bought the show. __Captain Janeway certainly had bought it, Stadi mused, remembering her commanding officer's cold, dismissive words about Paris. _Not at all like his father_, Janeway had said, and Stadi mentally shook her head at the mere memory of those words._

_How could she be so close-minded? Stadi wondered about her CO. The expectations to fill the shoes of someone from an earlier generation were one of the worse things that could happen to a young person. She knew that first hand. Everyone in the family had expected her to go into counseling – as the most gifted of a respectable number of gifted siblings and cousins, she was supposed to follow the path of Aunt Adah and become a therapist._

She'd chosen a different path, and her family, though not happy about her decision, had allowed her to follow her own, chosen path – albeit after much fruitless discussion. She wondered now what Tom Paris might have dreamed of before his father pushed him into cadet school without even asking.

There was no doubt that the Admiral had chosen his only son's career. Tom's personal file proved it to anyone who could read between the lines. Still, he had achieved outstanding results at the Academy – which meant that he either accepted his father's choice or very much wanted to prove himself to the Admiral. Either way, according to those results, he had to be bright.

Obviously, the silence between them had become too long for Tom's taste, because he shifted in his seat and launched into prattle again.

"Stadi," he said, "you're changing my mind about Betazoids."

She raised a fine eyebrow. What was Paris trying to accomplish through this constant chatter? To keep the conversation from turning to personal things? Or was he actually making a pass on her? That would have matched the cocky, slightly cynical persona he broadcasted very convincingly. But Stadi felt something else beneath all those layers and personas and masks the young man was hiding behind – something she wasn't quite able to name yet. Not without invading his mind – and that was the last thing she'd ever do to him. Somehow she had the unpleasant feeling that Tom Paris had been violated enough for a lifetime already.

So she only nodded with unsmiling amusement and replied, "Good,"

That earned her an exasperated look.

"It wasn't a compliment," Paris said, clearly annoyed now. "Until today, I always considered your people to be warm and sensual…"

Stadi resisted the urge to roll her eyes… barely. Ever since Deanna Troi had joined Starfleet, people had kept expecting all Betazoids to behave as she did. Or her mother. As if a whole race could have been judged by the eccentric behaviour of _one family. Granted, Lwaxana Troi was the matriarch of one of the five leading Houses of Betazed, and as an ambassador of the Federation well-known throughout the Alpha Quadrant. Still, she was only __one person, and she was considered an eccentric and a free spirit among Betazoids._

Stadi frowned, concentrating on her pilot's console for a moment to suppress her own annoyance. "I _can be warm and sensuous," she replied, leaving the sentence unfinished. But Tom seemed to understand anyway._

"Just not to me," he finished for her in the same playful manner they had been bantering all along the way. Still, Stadi could feel some old, bone-deep frustration underlying his tone. A little mollified, she tilted her head to one side.

"Do you always fly at women at warp speed, Mr. Paris?" she asked.

Paris gave her a coy smile that didn't quite reach his blue eyes. "Only when they're in visual range."

Stadi shook her head with a tolerant smile. Paris' smartass manners would have infuriated her at any other time, but right now she was too excited about her first deep-space assignment. Besides, she could feel with a certainty that exceeded logic that this was only one of the many masks the young man wore for his own protection. She'd love to see the real person behind all those layers of self-protection, but for that, even their endless seven-hour-trip was too short. Maybe she'd find the chance aboard _Voyager_ to know Paris better.

Stadi liked complicated cases – they offered a good challenge.

She concentrated on the impulse thrusters, taking their velocity down to half, gently shifting the shuttle's approach, as they were reaching the end of their long trip. All the time she could feel the critical eye of Paris on her hands and had the odd feeling that he was forcibly restraining himself from pointing out half a dozen ways she could have done things faster, better, more smoothly. After all, Tom used to be an ace pilot.

"Tempted to take over?" she asked playfully. "Your hands itching already?"

"Me?" he asked back lightly but couldn't completely suppress the bitter undertone in his voice. "I'm just an _observer. The ultimate in look-but-don't-touch technology."_

That killed the conversation immediately. Stadi regretted her joke that had obviously hit a little too close to home as Paris fell back into brooding. The next twenty minutes were spent in utter and not very comfortable silence. Then the sensors beeped softly, and Stadi felt the excitement rising in her again. They had come into visual range of DS9.

"We are here," she murmured.

Tom stood and looked over her shoulder. On the viewscreen the slender spiral of Deep Space Nine turned slowly in a never-ending pirouette against the unpopulated background of open space. Its gothically ornate, alien beauty was like nothing he had seen before. The Cardassians might be master architects, but this sweeping, angular style was too dark for his comfort. What vaguely disturbed him was that almost organic look to the grey-green metal; the way the outer docking ring had those long, arching pylons, like ribs sticking out from a circular spine. Or like claws, ready to claw into their unsuspecting prey.

Several dozen ships were docked at the station, few of them bearing a Federation design. But among those few there was a small, sleek one, hanging poised with her nose touching the uppermost docking bay, and he knew at once this must be what Starfleet had specifically built to hunt down the Maquis. This ship was a predator – swift and merciless.

"That is our ship," Stadi said, confirming his suspicion. "That's _Voyager_."

So, he was right. Tom remembered all those old and battered Maquis ships he'd seen and flown during his short stay with the rebels… how it demanded constant engineering wizardry to keep them in one piece. Sending this sleek predator after them was like sending a cheetah after some old and wounded prey.

_Well, I'll have to distract the nose of the cheetah, so that she won't find the prey, he thought, full of sorrow. He'd __love to fly this ship… but it would never come to that. No ship in the universe would be worth bringing Greg in jail. Or any of the others. Even that infuriating, arrogant, holier-than-thou Indian._

"Intrepid-class," Stadi continued, dividing her attention between her console and the sight before their eyes. "Sustainable cruise velocity of Warp factor nine point nine-seven-five. Fifteen decks, crew complement of one hundred forty-one, bioneural circuitry…"

That was something new for Tom. "Bioneural?"

Stadi nodded absently, returning her full concentration to piloting. "Some of the traditional circuitry has been replaced with gel packs that contain synthetic neural cells. They organize information more efficiently, speed up response time." She grinned at him with delight. "Want to take a closer look?"

Without waiting for an answer, she swept the shuttle into a smooth arc, lifting it over the top of the station and gliding along _Voyager_'s full length. Tom stared at the ship with admiration and jealousy. Man, he wanted to fly her! But the best he could hope was outsmart this smart little predator, to lead her in circles among the plasma storms. To distract the cheetah, so that the wounded prey could flee and heal.

There was no hope left for him. But at the very least he could spare the others the same fate. That had to be enough.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

TBC


	4. Chapter 4: Deep Space Nine

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.**

**Rating: G, for this part.**

**Author's note: Just a friendly word of warning: this is a slow-paced story, so please don't expect the characters go through two years' worth of development in a single chapter. And yes, a good part of the dialogues is still taken from the actual episode. Written by Rick Berman, Michael Piller or Jeri Taylor. Whichever of them was responsible for those particular lines.**

As always, heartfelt thanks to Brigid for beta reading.

CHAPTER FOUR: DEEP SPACE NINE 

They docked, and the outer door of the airlock slid slowly open with a distinct – and not very reassuring – groan. It seemed that the old Cardassian station still didn't work at peak Starfleet efficiency. Shouldering his duffel, Tom followed Stadi inside the airlock and drew a deep breath. The air tasted a little stale. Hopefully, inside the station itself the filters worked better.

He interpreted the small inconvenience as a warning. The short period of peace was over for him. He had to prepare himself for the next battle. He knew it wouldn't be easy for him on _Voyager. Stadi was friendly enough, but he didn't expect his other shipmates to react the same way. In fact, he __knew they wouldn't. Stadi was the exception, not the rule._

The inner door of the airlock clanked shut behind them. They went along a short corridor, then another set of doors opened, and they stepped out into a place that looked like a combination of free port and flea market. It was crammed full of kiosks, restaurants, bars with secluded upstairs areas that Tom's experienced eyes recognized at once as holosuites, conventional ship's stores, gambling casinos – even a Bajoran temple. The combination of simple, mystical Bajoran design and ethereal, ornate Cardassian style produced a striking and exotic effect.

Less striking and exotic, however, the civilian security officer, in his reddish brown garb, waited with stiff-necked patience just beyond the docking bay's hatch. Tom wasn't familiar with the uniform of Bajor's civilian constabulary – assuming they _had one in the first place – but he'd learnt to recognize security types at first sight while serving his sentence in Auckland. The short-cropped hair wasn't the only sign giving them away._

"It seems I've been expected," he said, the bitterness in his voice surprising even himself. "I should be flattered that people still think me such a security risk."

Stadi raised a delicate eyebrow. "No need to become paranoid, Mr. Paris. They greet everyone who belongs to Starfleet – in whatever function. This is an act of courtesy here. I went through the same procedure when I first arrived, including a visit to the Immigrations Office."

"A _what_?" Tom repeated in shock. Stadi shrugged.

"We won't be leaving right away. Starfleet personnel usually get a permanent visa, since we need access to non-public areas as well."

Tom shot her a skeptical look. "Are you sure that includes me, too?"

"According to Captain Janeway's orders, it does," she replied calmly. Then she gave the Bajoran in the brown garb a brilliant smile. "Deputy Hovath! It's good to see you again. This is Mr. Paris."

That smile didn't fail to have its effect on the middle-aged Bajoran. He mellowed considerably while consulting the data PADD in his hand.

"Thomas Eugene Paris? Assigned to the scout ship _Voyager_?" He obviously didn't ask but confirmed his identity. Surprisingly enough, he actually _spoke Standard, even though rather accented – the words didn't came through the universal translator._

_Bajor must be taking their alliance with the Federation very seriously, Tom thought, carefully smoothing his face into a polite non-expression. "Yeah, that's me. Is there a problem, Deputy?"_

"None at all," the Bajoran consulted his PADD again, decidedly ignoring the tone of Tom's answer. "You are expected in the Immigrations Office to verify your visa; I suggest you go there immediately. Ms Koon is a busy woman, and she has already prepared the documents. All you need to do is to sign them. Do you require an escort?"

"He does not," Stadi intervened smoothly, seeing the shadow of bad memories flicking over Tom's face at the word 'escort'. "I'll show him the way."

"Very well," the Bajoran finally lowered his PADD and gave Tom a pointed look. "Welcome to the station, Mr. Paris. Please remember that there are no weapons allowed on the Promenade."

"I'll try," Tom replied sarcastically. He hadn't touched a weapon since his time in the Maquis, but that was something the deputy couldn't know.

The Bajoran frowned, rewrinkling his already ridged nose, and Stadi elbowed Paris in the ribs. Hard. She didn't like his attitude, even if it was just a mask.

"We are both familiar with the regulations, Mr. Hovath," she said politely. "Thank your for your time."

And with that, she grabbed Paris' upper arm and practically dragged him away before he could put his foot into his mouth again.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Half an hour – and a short but efficient visit with the station's no-nonsense Immigrations Officer – later they were strolling down DS9's crowded, gaudy, decidedly mall-like Promenade again. Stadi pointed out the main attractions to him – she had already spent a few weeks here, making herself familiar with _Voyager_'s systems, and had a good knowledge about many of the interesting places. They both agreed to give a wide berth to the Bolian, Klingon and Vulcan restaurants, and while Stadi highly recommended the Celestial Café, run by a slightly eccentric Bajoran woman called Chalan Aroya, Tom wanted something less… tame for starters.

Thus they inevitably ended up in Quark's Bar. As Tom learned later, all paths led to Quark's Bar on DS9. It was a three-level combination bar/casino/holographic brothel, usually known, as Stadi mentioned, simply as Quark's, and had been there since at least 2363. Among its features were a bar, Dabo tables, and holosuites on the second level, all being used for at least 18 hours every day – meaning the 26-hour Bajoran cycle, of course.

Despite it being a gambling establishment as well, the noise lever was fairly low at the moment – probably because they came at a low-traffic time, when most station personnel lunch breaks were over already, and shift change still several hours away. A group of Starfleet engineers was sitting at a nearby table – a curly-haired Irishman, if his brogue was any indication, a young Latino whom the others called "Quique" and two Bolians – talking shop with an attractive Bajoran woman in a grey uniform, apparently an engineer herself.

Stadi knew a few of them and pointed them out to Tom discreetly.

"Chief O'Brien," she nodded towards the Irishman, "served on the _Enterprise_ for years before accepting the post of Chief Petty Officer here. The older Bolian, Zim Brott, is his second. I don't know the other Bolian or the Bajoran woman. But the young man is called Enrique Muniz. He doesn't only work with the chief, they are friends, too."

Paris nodded noncommittally and continued surveying their surroundings. A little further away he detected a tall, elegant woman in the blue uniform of a science officer. She was consulting her PADD with intense concentration. The delicate spots along her temples and her long, graceful neck gave her away as a Trill. She sat with a very strange, lumpy creature clad in some sort of leather coverall (including _gloves!), who didn't speak, just stared into its drink with small, pig-like eyes._

At the other end of the bar a young, handsome medical Lieutenant was having lunch with – a _Cardassian, in civilian clothes. Now, that was something Tom could barely believe._

"That's Mr. Garak," Stadi explained, following his bewildered look, "the only Cardassian in residence here. He's quite the tailor, I'm told. He and doctor Bashir are friends."

Regular Starfleet types might have been shocked at such… unusual friendship. But Tom had learned that one found allies in the most unexpected places.

"Aren't they afraid the Cardassian might be a spy?" was all he asked. Stadi grinned in a most devious manner.

"He most likely is. But at least he's in plain sight."

"True," Tom agreed. "And who is the gorgeous Trill over there? With that odd-looking guy?" Stadi shot a cursory look in the said direction – and smiled.

"Lieutenant Jadzia Dax. She's the science officer of the station... and quite the party animal, too. It's said that she's able to beat the Ferengi in Tongo, and that's a task not many are up to."

"Dax?" Tom repeated with a frown. "I've met a Trill named Dax once, when I escorted the Admiral to some diplomatic event, years and years ago. But _that_ Dax was an old man. Is she his daughter?"

"No, she's the new host," Stadi replied easily. "Curzon Dax died, almost three years ago. Jadzia was joined with the Dax symbiont at about the same time."

"For having only been here a few weeks, you know an awful lot of these people," Tom remarked, looking around to see if he could find a waiter somewhere. Stadi laughed.

"I've known Jadzia for years. I mean, _before she got joined. We attended exobiology and exoarcheology classes together, back at the Academy. She's only two years my senior."_

"It's a small universe," Tom commented. "I assume she likes gossip, too?"

"Just like myself," Stadi grinned. Winking to an exotic-looking, red-haired alien woman with a very high, delicately ridged forehead. "Hello, Miss Sarda!"

The small, fragile woman in the traditionally revealing costume of a Dabo girl came to their table. "Back already, Lieutenant? Can I help you?"

"Actually, it's a waiter who could help us," Stadi replied, smiling. "Where are they all?"

"In the back room, getting their scheduled dressing down," Miss Sarda grinned. "Quark is having a bad day – low traffic. But I can get you whatever you need. I'm in charge while he's chewing out his slaves."

"_Slaves_?" Tom repeated. Miss Sarda shrugged.

"The other Ferengi. They are unable to defend themselves."

"Unlike you?" Stadi asked.

"Oh, he _did_ try his little games with me," the small woman with the curly, fire-red mane answered. "I went straight to Commander Sisko and he put Quark firmly to his place. So, what can I bring you?"

"A big glass of uttaberry juice," Stadi answered with a smile. Tom ordered a synthale and they continued watching the traffic in the bar.

The two Bolian engineers left shortly thereafter, and so did the Trill, too, giving her table companion a friendly pat on the shoulder and sending a wink and a smile in Stadi's direction. Some more Starfleet personnel filed in, followed by a lovely Asian woman, carrying a sweet-faced little girl in her arms.

"The wife of Chief O'Brien," Stadi offered. "She's a botanist. The little one is Molly, their daughter… Oh, it seems the daily dressing down is over!"

Tom followed her amused look and saw a shrewd-looking little Ferengi, with shockingly big ears even in Ferengi terms and a vest too tawdry to be worn by anyone but its owner, emerge from the back rooms. Four other Ferengi, wearing the identical expressions of recently kicked dogs, followed him and swarmed out to tend to the customers. The bar owner returned to the counter and started polishing it, the calculating look of his small eyes on the fresh and guileless face of a young Asian Starfleet ensign.

"Uh-huh," Stadi murmured with rapt interest, "Quark is on the hunt. That poor kid won't stand half a chance…"

"Should we rescue him?" Tom asked, disgusted by the shark-like expression with which the Ferengi approached the young ensign. The pointed teeth gave Quark's smile a particularly unpleasant quality.

"Not yet," Stadi replied with a wicked grin. "Let's allow him to sweat a little first. Otherwise, he'll never learn his lesson."

At this moment, her combadge beeped. She activated it with a light tap.

"Cavit to Lt. Stadi," a stern-sounding male voice said.

"Go ahead, sir," she replied.

"You are needed on the bridge, Lieutenant," the voice continued. "The captain wants to discuss the route with you."

"On my way, sir."

"And tell your… _passenger_ to report in. ASAP. Cavit out."

"Aye, sir," Stadi said automatically and shot Tom a pointed look. "You heard the XO. We'll better get going. Captain Janeway runs a tight ship."

"You go," Tom replied, pointing at his synthale. "I'm just going to finish my drink and see if the kid needs rescuing."

Involuntarily, Stadi stopped on her track, giving the scene unfolding in close proximity an interested gaze.

"… and if I may say so, it's been my special pleasure to see many new officers like yourself come through these portals." The Ferengi leaned on his elbows across the counter, speaking in an almost fatherly manner. "I'm sure your parents must be _very proud, my boy. You know, on an occasion like this..."_

The ensign smiled politely and shook his head. "I'm really not interested."

"Ouch!" Stadi winced. "One should never say 'interested' within the earshot of a Ferengi…"

"And they have _very keen ears," Tom commented in the same low voice._

"Interested?" the bar owner repeated with an almost-innocent expression. Stadi stifled a laugh. The ensign, however, smiled again.

"You were about to try to sell me something. Right? "

"Double ouch!" Tom whispered. "'Interested' and 'sell' within the same five minutes… This kid is doomed."

"And so am I, if the XO has to wait another five minutes," Stadi answered regretfully. "You sure you can handle this? Quark is awfully good…"

"And so am I," Tom interrupted with the easy confidence of a long-time gambler. "Don't worry; I'm up to the Ferengi. Go!"

Stadi shot the ensign a final look, full of pity, and hurried away. Tom leaned back in his chair to enjoy the spectacle fully. He didn't care if Janeway got mad at him for not running at her first whistle. The way things were he couldn't count on _not being put back into jail if – __when, he reminded himself sternly, __you have to see that it happens – the mission of __Voyager spectacularly failed, so he didn't need to try and get on her good side anyway._

He had to admit that the Ferengi was good. He pushed away from the bar, peering down at the ensign with a disapproving expression – peering _down_ being relative, of course.

"I was merely going to suggest that your parents might appreciate a memento of your first mission… "

"…and you happen to have several to choose from," the ensign finished, his dark eyes gently amused. Tom nodded approvingly. The kid was no complete fool after all, it seemed. But still too green to stand up to one very determined Ferengi. _That would require a level of subtlety that he had yet to achieve – if ever._

 The Ferengi's eyes had begun to twinkle with their own light by now, but he was still pretending to be mostly disinterested – and rather convincingly, Tom had to admit. His tone was casual, as if he and the ensign would only have a friendly chat.

"I do carry a select line of unique artifacts and gemstones indigenous to this region..."

Damn! One of those puny, dog-faced Ferengi waiters crossed Tom's line of vision, so that he remained forever unaware of how that middle-sized case of cheap but sparkling gemstones had appeared on the counter – seemingly out of thin air, as if delivered by a site-to-site transporter. Which wasn't entirely out of the question, of course. Ferengi were known to get their greedy little hands on the newest technology as soon as it left the labs.

"Why, quite recently," the Ferengi continued, tilting the case towards the light so that the sparkling effect of the stones increased, "I acquired these Lobi crystals from a very strange creature called a Morn…"

Tom watched with mild interest as the lumpy patron, still sitting at the abandoned table of the Trill science officer, glanced up in apparent recognition. Could it be the "strange creature" in question?

In the meantime, the ensign still had no idea that he was about to walk into a trap with his eyes wide open. He smiled at the Ferengi knowingly.

"We were warned about the Ferengi at the Academy," he said, believing himself to have drawn the big guns. Tom snorted. Jesus, the kid was green beyond belief!

The Ferengi set down the tray, and cocking his head on the side, he looked at the ensign with an almost manic gleam in his eyes – a gleam that screamed _latinum_ to everyone who could read it.

Unfortunately, the ensign didn't belong to those people.

"Warned about Ferengi, were you?" the bar owner said slowly.

The ensign nodded, full of innocent confidence that he'd won the battle already. "That's right."

The Ferengi displayed such an image of wounded pride that even Tom almost bought it. _Almost_.

"Slurs," the bar owner declared. "About my people. At Starfleet Academy."

It was a remarkable performance, Tom had to give him that much. The ensign, for his part, certainly bought it – and tried to back off. "What I meant was..."

"Here I am, trying to be a cordial host, knowing how much a young officer's parents would appreciate a token of his love on the eve of a dangerous mission," the Ferengi continued with a dignified hurt in his lisping voice that was almost convincing. "And what do I get for my trouble? Scurrilous insults."

A PADD appeared in his hands, almost miraculously, and Tom whistled softly. This guy had to be a killer at the gambling table, with those skills. And he was already tapping out notes on the small device's surface, commenting in a menacing tone:

"Well, _somebody_'s going to hear about this. What's your name, son? 

"My… name?" the ensign stammered. The Ferengi sneered at him.

"You do have one, I presume?"

"Kim," the ensign answered, panic clearly written in his young face. "Harry Kim. But I…"

"And who was it at the Academy who warned you about Ferengi?"

"You know," Kim interrupted, his breathing becoming erratic from sheer nervousness, "I think a memento for my parents would be a great idea."

The Ferengi, who, of course, had counted on exactly this reaction, kept playing the part of the unjustly hurt.

"Really!" Kim picked up the case and made a half-hearted effort of studying the cheap – and not all too appealing – content. "One of these would look great as a pendant for my mother."

"They're not for sale!" The Ferengi jerked the case of cheap junk out of the young man's hands with surprising vehemence – the sincerest sign that he was sure of the outcome of this little encounter – and bent back to his PADD. "Now, inform your commanding officer that the Federation Council can expect an official query from..."

The Federation Council would not care for the complaints of one insignificant Ferengi, even if said Ferengi actually intended to send that query. Which he did not, and Kim knew that. However, he was also bright enough to admit defeat – so he grabbed the case before the Ferengi could take it away and sighed.

"How much for the entire tray?"

That strange gleam appeared in those watery little eyes again. "Cash or credit?"

_That's enough, Tom decided, rising from his table. _Time to intervene_. He might have been the hardened, cynical product of the "enlightened" Federation penal system (not to mention the Admiral's Spartan education), but this kid didn't deserve to be plucked apart by a Ferengi hyena. Besides, he had promised Stadi to rescue the ensign, hadn't he? And despite many people's opinion, Tom Paris was a man of his word._

He sauntered to the counter in the worldly manner he had perfected by visiting too many bars in those years between his first and second tribunal, and gave the cheap chunks a speculative look. "Dazzling, aren't they?"

The wrath flickering through the Ferengi's face was worth the whole show alone. Tom seated himself on a barstool directly at the ensign's elbow and continued studying the gemstones. "As bright as Koladan diamonds."

"Brighter," the Ferengi snarled, smelling the danger for his practically sealed deal.

"Hard to believe you can find them on any planet in the system," Tom went on conversationally, picking up one of the coloured stones for a closer look. However, the Ferengi slapped his hand away and put it back to its place.

"_That_'s an exaggeration," he replied with a baleful look.

Tom ignored him and turned to Kim, as if continuing an already ongoing conversation. "You know, there's a shop at the Volnar Colony that sells a dozen assorted shapes for one Cardassian lek." He turned back to the Ferengi with feigned interest. "How much are you selling these for?"

The Ferengi smiled at him with all the friendliness of a hungry crocodile. "We were just about to negotiate the price."

Kim glanced first at Tom, then at the Ferengi, his bright mind recognizing the escape route for what it was at once.

"You know," he said, shoving the case back across the bar toward its owner, "I believe I'd rather send my parents a recorded subspace message. Featuring me, playing my newly-composed sonata."

With that, he made a less than dignified but safe escape. Tom threw the price for his ale and Stadi's juice plus a generous tip for the reappearing Miss Sarda onto the table and followed suit with the first honest grin for years on his face.

To his surprise, the young ensign was waiting for him just outside the bar, looking utterly relieved.

"Thanks," he said simply, glancing away in embarrassment. Tom brushed it off.

"Don't mention it. Once I was stupid enough to try and barter with a Ferengi, too. I still have the scars."

"I don't know how I managed to walk exactly where he wanted me," Kim admitted. Tom clapped him on the shoulder.

"Didn't they warn you about Ferengi at the Academy?" he asked, and after a moment of silence they both burst out in laughter.

TBC


	5. Interlude 1: Lost

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.**

**Rating: PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.**

**A/N:** Beta read by Brigid, my sincerest thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine alone.

Sidhe Ranma, would you contact  me personally? I'd do so myself, but you didn't leave an email address.

INTERLUDE: LOST 

The deck lurched. Chakotay flew from his seat and knocked Sito off her feet. The small, fragile-looking blonde rolled over expertly and – hard to believe – landed on her feet again. Then he remembered that back on the _Enterprise_ Sito had been working out with the Klingon security officer. She had the equivalent of a green belt in Klingon martial arts. Such things can harden a person – make them able to survive a Cardassian prison camp. Or an encounter like this.

Darkness. With a roar, the bridge erupted in flame. Chakotay was slammed to the deck again. With half an eye he saw Torres and Suvuk grabbing the fire extinguisher, trying to quench the flames. Dalby, however, at any other time the first one to run doing damage control, crouched down to the deck, cradling the broken body of Gerron in his arms.

When the _Crazy Horse_ righted herself, Chakotay drew in a lungful of smoke, coughed, and pushed himself to his knees. The billowing smoke clutched at his throat, stung his eyes; breathing had become increasingly difficult. He wiped away the sweat trickling down his face and noticed absently the dark red wetness soaking his sleeve.

"Report!" he demanded, taking a look around.

What he saw didn't improve his mood a bit. The bridge lay dark and smoldering, illuminated only by the sparks raining from damaged consoles. But Suvuk had returned to his own panel already – as a Vulcan he was stronger than most of the crew.

"We have suffered considerable damage," he reported calmly, "but no hull breach so far, if the remaining sensors are working reliably."

"I suppose it's lucky that the Warp engines were down already," Torres, almost as unbreakable as the Vulcan, was working furiously at her console again. "Had that – whatever it was that hit us – caught us in Warp transit, a core breach would have been impossible to stop."

"Casualties?" Chakotay asked the Vulcan. Suvuk tilted his head.

"Unknown. Internal communication is down at the moment."

Of course. Why not? When they needed the damn intercom most, it would crash on them. Chakotay gritted his teeth, fighting his nausea.

"What about Gerry?"

"He's hit his head pretty hard," Sito replied, pressing a hypospray against the young Bajoran's neck, "but he'll live. That thick hair of his dampened the collision a lot. How do _you feel, Captain?"_

"I'll live, too," Chakotay grimaced. "Now, since intercom is dead…"

"I'll have to go and look after the crew personally," Sito finished for him, already repacking her medkit. "On my way, sir."

Chakotay nodded his thanks, suppressing a smile over Sito's still flawless Starfleet manners. If only Captain Picard knew where his teachings had come to fruition…

"Send Seska up here if you see her," he added. "We need someone at the sensors."

Sito acknowledged with a brief nod and left. In the background Gerron was groaning softly. Then Chakotay heard Dalby's reassuring murmurs and smiled, despite their desolate state. The hard-bitten man really went out of his way to protect the kid.

The door groaned open again, and in came Seska, business-like and efficient as always. Chakotay couldn't help but admire the strength of that woman, in spite of the fact that Seska's stubbornness – her _strength, as she preferred to put it – was the very thing that drove them apart. Still, he wouldn't have her any other way, and while they had failed as lovers, they still remained good friends. Most of the time, anyway._

"What do you need me for?" she asked in the same mocking manner as always. As if she expected the answer to be "for my bed".

"Sensors," Chakotay replied curtly. He was in no mood for Seska's games. He still liked her, even though their intimacy belonged to the past, but at times Seska simply didn't know when to hold back. It was no secret that she still hoped to revive their relationship.

The Bajoran realized that she had crossed that invisible border of Chakotay's patience – again! – and stepped to one of the dead sensor consoles without a further comment, her rigid stature broadcasting clearly that this wasn't over yet. Still, just as Chakotay had expected, she was able to force the instruments to respond in less than ten minutes – only to bend over the readings with a frown.

"What the hell… Suvuk, have you ever seen anything like _this_?"

The Vulcan stepped to her side, and after half a minute a deep furl appeared between his upswept brows.

"The readings are… inconclusive," he decided in that blank manner that always meant utter surprise by Vulcans.

"What is it?" Chakotay asked, his stomach clenching.

"We seem unable to define our current position," Suvuk explained calmly. "The constellations surrounding us don't show any similarity with anything in Bajoran – or Cardassian – space."

"Just _how_ far has that displacement wave hurled us?"

"That is currently unknown, Captain. I suggest we initiate an interlink frequency with the astrometrics database for clarification."

"Do it. How long will it take until we find out anything useful?"

"My estimate, imprecise as it is, would be at least two hours, Captain. Our on-board computer is rather slow in processing scientific date."

_Of course it is, Chakotay thought sourly, __the Crazy Horse is not a science vessel. But out loud he only said, "No problem. In the meantime we can get a few things repaired and the wounded cared for. Ken, take Gerry to his quarters, then come back and help B'Elanna with the repairs."_

Dalby reluctantly nodded and scooped up Gerron in his arms. "I wish we had at least a sick room," he said. "I hate to leave him alone like this."

"So do I, but this is not a Starfleet cruiser, and you know that, Ken," Chakotay replied.

Growling some mild obscenities, Dalby left the bridge, and Chakotay focused his attention (or what was left of it after his head injury) on the comm system. With Warp engines down and impulse engines almost gone, they hung dead in space, and he didn't like being so completely helpless.

Of course, he knew his way around an engine room and was able to make small repairs – nobody in the Maquis could afford to be ignorant – but right now he wished he had attended more engineering courses while still at the Academy. By the shape his ship was in right now, the basics simply weren't enough.

"Let me take a look at it, Captain," a soft voice said, and Hogan's young face swam into his sight.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. Hogan shrugged.

"Tabor can't manage in the engine room without B'Elanna. He asked me to fetch her."

"Then do it!" Chakotay said through gritted teeth. Damn nausea was rising in his stomach again.

"I already did," Hogan replied. "She told me to stay here and make myself useful, So, sit down and let me kick some sense into the comm system, okay?"

Chakotay realized that Hogan was right. The young human used to be an engineer, working in the shuttle maintenance center in the Volan Colonies before the Federation let them fall into Cardassian hands. He was an orphan, raised in the family of his maternal uncle, one Bill Samuels, who got tortured to death by Gul Evek's investigators. After that, Hogan took his uncle's place in the Maquis – and proved to be a real asset. Not only did he know his job well, he also managed to get along with Torres. Their colony had some Klingon citizens, too, and Hogan had learned how to handle their tempers early on. Chakotay was extremely grateful for that.

"All right," he said, sliding gingerly aside to give Hogan a little room at the pilot's console. "Who else is down there?"

"Just Tabor, B'Elanna and Jonas, so far," Hogan answered, frowning over the shape of the bridge. "Jarvin is on his way but has to check the transporter first."

"How bad is it? Chakotay asked quietly. Hogan shrugged again.

"Bad enough… but nothing that B'Elanna can't put together again – assuming that we'll be left alone long enough to do the repairs. Where _are_ we right now, by the way?"

"That," Suvuk replied dryly, "is something we still are trying to ascertain at this time."

Hogan snorted good-naturedly – due to the mixed population of the Volan Colonies he was used to Vulcans, too. Or Bolians, for that matter. In fact, he could get along with almost everybody. Except Cardassians, of course. But that was not _his_ fault.

They all worked in silence for a while. Chakotay found the dermal regenerator he kept under his console and tried to repair the cut on his forehead. Without a mirror, it was a little complicated, of course, but he managed to do it, just as he usually managed to shave without a mirror. He'd have liked a hypospray against the splitting headache, but the only medkit was the one Sito was using. Besides, their medical supplies were running low and had to be saved for the really serious cases.

"Comm system is coming back online, Captain," Hogan reported. Chakotay nodded – and winced, making a mental note to avoid such gestures in the foreseeable future. Maybe he _did have a concussion, after all._

"Hail the runabout!"

Hogan tried – in vain. "No answer, Captain."

"Damn!" Chakotay gritted his teeth again, this time to fight his frustration. "They got through the plasma storm with us, where can they be?"

Hogan shrugged – his usual reaction to new problems that kept emerging on the Maquis ship at any moment.

"Perhaps these runabouts aren't that tough, after all. Just because something is fancy and shiny…"

"On the contrary," Suvuk said. "Runabouts, though small in size, are remarkably resilient. If the _Crazy Horse managed to resist the efforts of the displacement wave, despite her less-than-ideal condition, it is logical to assume that the runabout did so as well."_

"I hope so," Chakotay murmured, switching to internal communication. "Bridge to Sito. Casualties?"

"We've lost Lanca. And Tamal is in pretty bad shape," the young woman replied in a neutral voice.

Chakotay suppressed a curse. Lanca was one of their oldest team members – even-tempered, experienced and tireless. He'd miss the man. Just as he'd miss Tamal, should the hot-headed young cell leader from Ronara Prime not survive. Tamal didn't belong to his cell. He was taking the place of old Macias on their homeworld. It was an accident that he was on board and he was badly needed at home.

"Understood," he said with a heavy sigh. "Seska, what's with that viewscreen? We need a look around!"

"Almost there," Seska was working with that typical, intense concentration of hers. "All right, it should come back online about…now!"

Suvuk had turned back to his reading already, and that furrow appeared between his brows again. "These readings make no sense," he commented in a manner that was almost a complaint.

But none on the bridge paid him any attention. All eyes were fixed on the unbelievable view before them, and after a long, stunned silence, it was Chakotay who finally formulated the question on everybody's mind.

"What the hell is _that?"_

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**Note: Tamal is a character known from TNG ("Preemptive Strike") and DS9 ("Defiant"). Ronara Prime is the planet in the DMZ where the Maquis abducted Ro Laren until they checked her story in "Preemptive Strike". Old Macias, the cell leader of that particular colony, was killed by Cardassian assassins in that episode.**


	6. Chapter 5: Voyager

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer: All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.**

**Rating: PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.**

As always, my heartfelt thanks to Brigid for beta-reading. All remaining mistakes are mine – here and there I kept a few flawed expressions because they sounded  more… matching for my "alien" ears. :)

Yes, part of the dialogue is still taken from the episode. Now, those lines still don't belong to me, yadda, yadda.

CHAPTER FIVE: VOYAGER 

Leaving Quark's, Tom Paris and Harry Kim strolled along the Promenade in easy companionship. Which would last until the exact moment one of their more experienced shipmates informed the young ensign about the skeletons in Tom's cupboard. But he was used to that by now, and decided to enjoy Harry's company as long as he could. At least Stadi didn't seem to care…

"So, Harry," he said conversationally, "when did _you_ arrive on DS9?"

"Yesterday," Harry answered. "But I got the day off to explore the station a little."

Tom grinned about his young companion's enthusiasm. "Saw anything interesting?"

"Oh, definitely!" Harry grinned back, though a little embarrassed. "I spent some money – too much money, to be honest – in the shops, got sick at the Klingon restaurant. Attended an extremely strange Tellarite play and got beaten to the ground in a game of racquetball by Dr. Bashir. Of course, he used to be the Academy champion…"

Tom smiled, wishing he could get this excited about anything again. "This is your first assignment, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Harry nodded. "Lindsay Ballard and I – she used to be my classmate at the Academy – got assigned to _Voyager right after graduation. It's good to have a familiar face among all the strangers," he admitted a little sheepishly. "At least I'm not the only one who's green as lettuce."_

"How come you aren't exploring the station with her?" Tom asked.

"Who, do you think, dragged me to the Klingon restaurant _and_ the Tellarite play?" Harry replied, grinning. "But today she decided to attend the service in the Bajoran temple and _that_ was a little too much amateur anthropology for my taste."

Tom smiled, but – unnoticed by Harry – the smile never reached his eyes. He really, honestly envied the ensign for having an Academy friend sharing his first post. A familiar face among all the strangers. Once upon a time Tom Paris used to know that sort of camaraderie. For the first time in his life, he'd had people who were close to him. Not because he was the Admiral's son. Just for himself.

Until he got them killed at Caldik Prime. All three of them.

He didn't even realize he had slid into brooding again, until the ensign touched his arm to get his attention. He nearly jumped at that. Being touched meant he had allowed someone to come too close – not an advisable thing in prison, and he usually paid more attention to his surroundings. But being with Harry almost gave him the feeling of being part of the team again. Which was only an illusion, of course. An illusion doomed to end as soon as he set foot on _Voyager_.

_I have to watch my reactions, he warned himself, realizing that the ensign had been speaking to him._

"I'm sorry, Harry," he said in apology, "you lost me for a minute there. What were you saying?"

"Oh," Harry shrugged, and for some reason looked embarrassed again, "I just asked whether you checked in already."

Tom simply shook his head, glad not to have missed anything of importance. The kid was too nice; he didn't deserve to be ignored. "I just arrived an hour ago."

"Oh, I see," Harry hesitated a little then offered. "Want me to take you to sickbay?"

"Sickbay?" Tom repeated in surprise, swinging his duffel across the other shoulder to keep it from bumping against the kid. "Shouldn't we check in on the bridge?"

Harry shrugged. "I haven't been to the bridge yet either," he admitted. "Whenever I asked, the captain was busy with Commander Cavit. But Dr. Fitzgerald is usually in sickbay, and you need to get your medical files verified anyway."

That actually made sense, though the idea of some Starfleet doctor checking his files from Auckland made Tom more than a little uncomfortable. Those files were rather – revealing for someone who knew what to look for (especially those recorded _before_ Dr. Sorik had him moved to the secure wing), and he didn't want those particular episodes of his life to become common knowledge. Hell, he did his best to forget them!

"All right," he agreed, suppressing a sigh with long-practiced ease. There were things one simply couldn't change. "Sickbay it is. Lead on, buddy!"

They kept talking during the almost twenty minute trip to _Voyager_'s sickbay. Well, actually Harry was the one who did all the talking – Tom only participated with the occasional encouraging nod. The kid told him about his parents – it seemed that Harry was an only child, born to his parents relatively late and accordingly cherished – about his years playing clarinet in the Julliard Youth Symphony, about editing the Starfleet Academy Journal for years, and first and foremost, about his girlfriend, Libby, whom he intended to marry as soon as he could.

_No one should be this green, Paris thought fondly, knowing that Harry would regret his openness as soon as he realized who he was so graciously sharing his memories with. Still, he had not the heart to interrupt the kid. It had been so damn long since someone shared with him in such a friendly manner._

Since Caldik Prime, to be accurate. Oh, sure, Greg had told him all about his life in the DMZ colonies. But Greg's stories, told in short, clipped words, were full of sorrow and loss. They belonged to a life young Harry Kim was just about to experience during this mission.

Finally, Harry ran out of steam and stories – at about the same time they reached the double sliding doors of the infirmary. It was small and well-equipped, as would be expected for such a small, brand new starship, and – considering that most of the crew were only getting settled in their quarters and the station's docking clamps were still firmly engaged – not all too busy yet.

Aside from Dr. Fitzgerald and his calm Vulcan assistant only a tall Benzite male, with the usual breathing apparatus fixed on the chest of his golden uniform, was standing in front of a whole array of incomprehensible computer panels against one wall. A lieutenant commander, according to the rank pins on his collar. _The chief engineer, most likely_, Paris thought; the fishheads were notoriously good with machines, and this guy certainly had the age _and the rank for such a post aboard a starship. Not to mention the obvious confidence, but that was about the same with all Benzites._

The Vulcan nurse seemed fairly young, though with those sour Vulcan features it was hard to guess her age. The doctor, however, seemed vaguely familiar, even though Tom couldn't remember where he might have seen that long, unfriendly face of his. Having grown up as a Starfleet brat also meant having met a great number of people whom he wouldn't necessarily remember later. It had led to all sorts of awkward situations, back when people were still speaking to him.

At least he didn't have _this sort of problem now. Speaking of small favours…_

"We should run a level three diagnostic, Chief," Dr. Fitzgerald was saying irritably, just when they entered, verifying Tom's guess about the Benzite's function on board. "Just to be on the safe side."

"Better safe than sorry," the Benzite agreed, in the typical, slightly hollow voice of his kind that always sounded as if it would come through a thick layer of water; the breathing tube released a thin puff of necessary atmospheric gasses right under his flat nose. "I shall send Lt. Chapman to help you."

"Thanks," the doctor murmured absently, turning to his assistant to give her further instructions. That was when his eyes caught the newcomers in the doorway; a fact that apparently irritated him even more. "Can I help you?"

Kim was obviously taken aback by that tone – after all, they hadn't done anything wrong. More than that – they were _supposed to check in to sickbay, weren't they?_

"Tom Paris, reporting on board," Tom announced himself, taking pity on Harry.

The room temperature seemed to drop some twenty degrees, immediately. _And so it begins_, Paris thought, resigned, saying goodbye to his barely begun friendship with Harry Kim. Well, it had been nice while it lasted.

"Oh, yes…"there was open disgust in the doctor's sneer. "The…_ observer_."

All of a sudden, Tom had had enough. The doctor obviously had been informed about him, fine. And he obviously didn't want scum like Tom Paris in his sickbay – well, that was his problem. Tom Paris was dragged onboard by the mighty Captain Janeway herself, and he'd be damned if he put up with mean little hints like this.

"That's me," he nodded, his best infuriating grin plastered firmly on his face, while his eyes remained ice cold. "And as a matter of fact, I seem to be observing some kind of problem right now... Doctor."

Fitzgerald's answering grin was every bit as hostile as his own.

"I was a surgeon at the hospital on Caldik Prime at the same time you were stationed there," he said with obvious delight at the draining of blood from Tom's face. "We never actually met."

Due to long experience, Tom recovered from the unexpected blow within seconds. He'd learned the hard way to never let his opponent have the last word.

"You are mistaken, Doc," he replied with the same infuriating smile as before. "I, for my part, am quite sure that I've seen you somewhere. Who could ever forget such a friendly face?"

For a moment he thought Fitzgerald would actually hit him. That would have been great fun, having the asshole on report for assaulting a noncommissioned observer – and that the Benzite would report the incident was certain. Benzites were rather… minutious when it came to regulations, Starfleet ones or their own alike. But then the doctor turned away, grabbing a PADD from his desk and became all-professional again.

"Your medical records have arrived from your last… _posting_, Mr. Paris," he emphasized the word _posting_ pointedly. "Everything seems to be in order. The Captain asked if you were on board. You should check in with her. Now."

"Uh, I… I haven't paid my respects to the Captain yet, either," Harry blurted out, not able to endure the tension any longer. "Maybe I should go with Tom…"

Fitzgerald shot him a less than friendly look. "Well, Mr. Kim, that would be a good thing for a new operations officer to do."

_Asshole, Tom commented to himself, leaving sickbay without as much as a glance back. _You _had_ to chew out the kid, didn't you? Just because you hate _my_ guts…__

Something cool touched his arm, and he took an involuntary step back as he saw that it was the oddly-fingered, greyish blue hand of the chief engineer. Of course it felt cool, Benzites being a cold-blooded species. Their body temperature always matched the temperature of their surroundings.

"You might want to do something about that attitude of yours, Mr. Paris," the Benzite said, not entirely unfriendly. "It might get you in trouble again."

Tom felt a hot fury he had thought long forgotten rise in his guts for the first time since his court-martial. How _dare this fishhead to patronize him?! He took another step backwards, shaking off that big, cool hand._

"I don't appreciate being pawed, Commander," he said icily. _Especially not by guys twice my size_. "It deteriorates my… attitude severely, if you know what I mean."

But the small eyes of the Benzite looked down at him almost compassionately from under those swollen blue lids.

"I think I do," the chief engineer answered. "And, by the way, the name is Mendon."

Without a further word, he hurried away, probably returning to engineering. Harry, who had followed Tom out of sickbay, sent a bewildered look after him.

"What was _that_ all about?"

Tom sighed and clapped the young man on the back. "It's a long story Harry, and I'm tired of telling it. I'm sure someone around here will tell you before long." With Fitzgerald on board there was no doubt about _that_. "Why don't we go and say 'hello' to the captain?"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Crossing the bridge to approach the Captain's ready room was nothing short of an ordeal; the trip from the turbolift behind the main command level seemed endless. Stadi looked up from the helm controls for a moment, giving them a brief nod and a hint of a smile, but it was way too little to put Tom's mind at ease. A short, trim, grey-haired, grim-faced man – another lieutenant commander, wearing the read uniform of the command staff – stood down by Stadi at the helm, but he didn't spare the newcomers as much as a fleeting glance.

The first officer, most likely. That would be one hell of a jolly ride through the Badlands.

Kim touched the door chime, and Paris stiffened involuntarily, hearing that scratchy voice from the inside.

"Come in," the captain of _Voyager called, and the door opened obediently._

The ready room was fairly spacious for such a small ship – something between a study, an office and a salon, with a couch in front of a huge window and low seats on the opposite side of the coffee table. All very welcoming and comfortable. The small, bony woman with the prominent chin and the tight bun seemed strangely… misplaced in these almost cozy surroundings.

Nevertheless, it was _her place, and frequently used at that, if the disorganized piles of PADDs, full of pre-launch reports, no doubt, and the half-empty coffee mugs in the replicator were any indication._

Janeway rose from behind her desk in a business-like manner that seemed to terrify Harry senseless in a second but had no effect whatsoever on Tom (after all, he was used to the Admiral himself), and put on a bright, somewhat plastic smile.

"Gentlemen," she said jovially, "welcome aboard _Voyager_."

Tom answered with a simple, though polite nod. He'd grown up with Starfleet brass going in and out of their home; he wasn't easily impressed anymore. Certainly not by one of the Admiral's lapdogs. Harry, on the other hand, practically forgot to breathe in a desperate attempt to pull even more stiffly at attention. "Thank you, sir."

"Mr. Kim," Janeway said in the same patronizing tone the Admiral's high-ranking visitors had used on little Tommy, while putting back another empty coffee mug into the replicator and punching the control that made them fade away into nothing, "at ease before you sprain something."

Harry made a valiant – though futile – attempt to relax, while Tom was silently fuming behind him. Why did she feel the need to make fun of the kid's insecurity? Harry had been nervous enough already; nervous enough to make a complete fool out of himself… and the lecturing, apparently, wasn't over yet.

Janeway folded her arms and turned her back on the replicator, regarding poor Kim in the manner of a long-suffering school teacher who takes the umpteenth effort to explain some basic fact to a particularly dense and irritating pupil.

"Ensign, despite Starfleet protocol, I don't like being addressed as 'sir'".

_Oh, joy! Another Starfleet captain with personal peeves! Tom resisted the urge to roll his eyes (in his position making an easily irritable captain mad at him wouldn't have been a smart move), while Harry flushed and nodded stiffly. "I'm sorry… ma'am?"_

"'Ma'am is acceptable in a crunch, but I prefer 'Captain'," she announced rather brusquely, and poor Harry nodded again, humiliated to the bone and not understanding what he'd done to deserve such treatment. He stuck to regulations and made his best effort to please – obviously, his best effort just wasn't god enough.

Still, Tom was wary enough to keep his expression carefully neutral, knowing all too well that Janeway didn't trust him any more than he trusted her. Which was next to nothing, to be perfectly honest. It could very well be that she intended to send him back to jail, regardless of the outcome of this little Maquis-hunting mission.

He saw her eyes checking out the duffel on his shoulder, as if she were surprised at its relative fullness, and felt irrational anger rising in his guts again. Had she expected him to arrive without any luggage, just with his documents and the Starfleet-issue singlet? Well, she was _wrong. Even though all his blood relatives had turned their collective backs on him, Uncle Nicholas, estranged from the mighty Paris clan (and divorced by the Admiral's ambitious sister after a mere six years of marriage) had the balls to stand up to them. Not publicly, of course, that wouldn't have been healthy for a lowly civilian engineer. But he took Tom in in Marseilles, after he'd been thrown out of Starfleet, looked after his meager belongings while he was in jail, and got them out of storage at once, as soon as Tom was set free, no matter how temporary it might be._

Uncle Nick's quiet support was the only thing that still kept Tom going. To know that he had someplace to go after his sentence was over (one way or another), made his time in jail survivable. An unpleasant captain on a short mission (one that Tom was determined to make fail) could not change _that._

Not able to get any clue from Tom's blank expression, Janeway stepped away from the replicator and gestured toward the door.

"We're getting ready to leave," she said. "Let me show you to the bridge."

As they fell into step behind her, she added in a conversational manner. "Did you have any problems getting here, Mr. Paris?"

_You'd like to know what I might have done on my way here, wouldn't you? Paris thought with grim satisfaction. True, he had boarded that crew transporter a day behind schedule, but he had still arrived on time, so she couldn't do a thing about it. He'd learned the hard way how far he could push people. He seldom made a mistake in that area anymore._

And the fact that he had made a stop in Marseilles on his way, meeting Uncle Nick and visiting Sandrine's, was none of Janeway's business. She belonged to a part of his life that was officially over – to the part where the Admiral belonged, Starfleet, the Academy… all things that were big and shiny. He was not about to share with her anything that came afterwards.

"None at all… _Captain_," he answered flatly. The rejection in his tone was so clear and complete that she didn't even attempt to continue the small talk.

Leaving the ready room, they walked along the front side of the sandy-haired security officer's work station. Stepping down to the main command level, Janeway met the wiry, grey-haired lieutenant commander who hurried up to them from behind Stadi's station.

"My first officer, Lieutenant Commander Cavit," Janeway introduced him; then she nodded towards the newcomers. "Ensign Kim, Mr. Paris."

Cavit shook Kin's hand with a paternal smile. "Welcome aboard."

With that, he obviously intended to turn away and leave them where they were. However, Tom was not willing to let him get away with that sort of rudeness. The captain wanted Paris' help, so Cavit just had to swallow it.

With an amused smile that wasn't entirely without bitterness, he offered his hand to the First Officer, faking his usual nonchalant manner once again perfectly.

Cavit stiffened, but after a moment of pointed hesitation took the proffered hand. Janeway watched them from narrowed eyes, and Tom could see that she was not happy with her first officer's behaviour. Not for Tom's sake, of course – he didn't count – but she expected things to run smoothly on her bridge. Well, it wasn't Tom's problem how she kept Cavit under control.

Poor Harry looked completely taken aback once again, obviously coming from a family where polite manners were the norm, under all circumstances. Janeway touched the young ensign's arm briefly, nudging him toward the Ops station, where a tall, dark-skinned young crewman was currently working.

"Ensign Kim, this is your station," she patted the console encouragingly. "Would you like to take over? Ensign Bristow, if you don't mind…"

The dark-skinned young man was already moving out from behind the operations console already, while Kim momentarily looked a little startled. After all, it wasn't usual to let a barely graduated ensign take over one of the important stations at once. Then a large smile spread across his face.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied enthusiastically. Now he finally was in his true place in the universe.

Janeway looked at him with that irritated schoolteacher expression again. "It's not crunch time yet, Mr. Kim," she said coldly. "I'll let you know when."

Kim looked stricken, of course, but at least he had the common sense to shut up, laying his fingertips on the controls, ready to prove himself. Janeway marched down to her command chair and gave her first officer a short, military-like nod. Cavit nodded back in understanding, without the need for words. Either the two of them had known each other for a long time, or the XO was simply damn good.

"Lieutenant Stadi," he said in a clear, calm voice, his eyes fixed on the viewscreen in anticipation, "lay in the course and clear our departure with operations."

The Betazoid nodded, her strong, slender fingers already dancing across the controls, quickly and efficiently. " Course entered, Ops has cleared us."

Cavit nodded. "Ready thrusters."

"Thrusters ready," Harry reported, a little breathlessly. Tom suppressed a smile, hearing the excitement of the young man's voice. His very first start as a Starfleet officer. There were moments like this that happened only once to a person.

"Initiate launching sequence," Cavit ordered.

"Sequence underway," Stadi replied. Unlike Kim, she didn't show any sign of nervousness, and Tom couldn't help but admire her calm, knowing that though she'd served in Starfleet for years, she'd never flown such a big ship before. _Unlike some people who aren't allowed to do it._

Janeway gave her young officers a benevolent smile – still patronizing, but at least without the usual irritated undertone – and lowered herself stiffly in the captain's chair. Taking a deep breath, she stuck out her chin and gave the command, "Engage!"

Forgotten by the busy and secretly excited bridge crew, Tom Paris stood in front of Kim's station, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. To all the people present, he could have been his own duffel, lying on the thinly carpeted floor. To this ship and her crew, he was totally useless. Regardless of the fact that he could fly this ship – hell, _any ship! – three times better than Stadi or any other pilot on board, he was not needed. Or wanted._

"It's hard to see what you could have had but have lost irrevocably, isn't it?" a soft voice asked, barely audible above the humming noise of awakening engines and bridge activity.

Jerking his head to the side, he saw Lieutenant Commander Mendon leaving his engineering station – a junior officer took over for him immediately – and taking one single step toward him. Tom controlled his surprise with a shrug.

"It's my own damn fault," he replied in an equally low voice.

The Benzite gave him a long, scrutinizing look, obviously feeling his bitterness all too well. "You are used to standing by the wayside, aren't you?"

Tom nodded, a wry grin placed on his face securely. "I've had time enough to get used to it. And from what I've seen aboard this ship so far, I don't expect things to change for me any time soon."

Mendon frowned, an interesting look for a being with no eyebrows.

"You can never know," he replied thoughtfully; then, in a completely unexpected switch of topics, he added. "As a senior officer, I belong to the Alpha shift. Meaning, I'll have to have breakfast at 07.30, at the very latest. That is, if you are up to watching a fishhead munching on algae salad."

He stepped back to his working station, leaving behind one completely dumbfounded Starfleet observer to contemplate the first true surprise of his life in more than two years.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**Note: the Benzite officer Mendon has been borrowed from the second season TNG episode "A Matter of Honor". His background, however, and all those little things concerning Benzites (except the breathing apparatus) have been made up by me. I chose him as the original chief engineer of _Voyager_ because I found it a little unbelievable that in the 24th century almost the whole crew would be human. And since fanfiction isn't limited by make-up costs, I can bring in interesting aliens along the way. :)**


	7. Chapter 6: The Truth Will Out

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.

**Author's note:** A considerable part of dialogue is quoted from the pilot episode again. I'm sure you all recognize which part. No, I don't own those particular lines. Yes, they still belong to Rick Berman, Michael Piller or Jeri Taylor. Whichever of the three  was responsible for writing them.

Beta-read by Brigid, many thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine. Sorry for the scrambled middle part – I tried to iron it out but so far no luck.

CHAPTER SIX: THE TRUTH WILL OUT 

Ever since Caldik Prime, Tom had suffered from recurring nightmares. The only time he had been relatively free of them was the few months in Marseille, after his court-martial. Of course, that elusive freedom had required heavy drinking – sometimes even drugs.

Uncle Nick had watched his slow but steady downward slide with increasing sorrow. At first he had been able to get Tom the various piloting assignments – he had pretty good contacts to civilian transport agencies; after all, he worked for the biggest one. But as Tom kept drinking, the assignments became fewer and harder to get.

For his part, Tom couldn't care less. Sure, he'd missed flying, but the only important thing was to reach that merciful state of haze where he could not see the faces of his dead friends anymore. Where he could not hear their final screams. _Anything_ that kept him fogged was good enough, no matter the price.

Without Uncle Nick he'd probably have ended up in the gutter, paying with his body for the next fix, if necessary. He would have done anything that spared him those dreams. But Uncle Nick had not abandoned him, no matter how low Tom stooped.

"You Parises are such a self-destructive bunch," he said, shaking his head sadly, and it hurt to see him like that, knowing _whom_ exactly he had meant. "Why can't you accept that you're human, like the rest of us – and capable of making mistakes?"

"Parises don't make mistakes," Tom replied automatically, only to earn an exasperated look from his uncle.

"Says who? The Admiral?"

"He's got the biggest authority in this particular area," Tom shrugged. Uncle Nick's friendly eyed hardened at that.

"Newsflash, Tom: contrary to family legend and his own beliefs, Owen Paris is not God. Nor is he omniscient. He's just one hard-nosed Fleet brat who never knew how to back off. Otherwise I'd still have my son, wouldn't I?"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Now, two years and several hundred nightmares later, Tom Paris entered _Voyager_'s mess hall, rubbing the back of his neck morosely. He'd missed his half-appointment with the chief engineer in the morning, falling in uneasy sleep on the floor of his cabin after a lousy night, repeatedly interrupted by violent nightmares. Just being aboard on a Starfleet ship again had been enough to trigger them every three or four hours.

Once, around 0200, he had been sorely tempted to replicate a bottle of Scotch or something even more brutal and knock himself out. But that would have been betrayal of Greg, who had managed what Uncle Nick couldn't: to bring him down from both the booze and the drugs. He couldn't do that – not yet, anyway. He wasn't desperate enough for such actions. Though he couldn't be sure that the time when he finally gave in wouldn't come. He was on his own now, and that had always been a dangerous thing.

In the Maquis, he'd been watched by Greg – not to mention that Chakotay would have broken his nose, had he dared to sit at the helm stoned. The big Indian had a mean right cross, and though he rarely lost his temper, when he did, the consequences were less than pleasant. And Tom still had enough sense of self-preservation to not take that sort of risks.

In jail, he'd been watched by the guards. With no replicator access and no visitors, save Uncle Nick at rare occasions, there had been little to no chance for a fallback. But here… nobody gave a damn about what happened to him on _Voyager_. And to ask the CMO for help – the only person who actually _might_ be able to help – was out of question, for obvious reasons.

He discovered the object of his grim thoughts as soon as he entered the mess hall. Dr. Fitzgerald sat at a table with the first officer and Harry on the other side of the hall, and from the disgusted looks the doctor and Cavit shot him, it was not to hard to figure out what they were talking about. _They've found the kid soon enough. Well, that was to be expected._

Though he'd missed breakfast, Tom suddenly didn't feel hungry. Still, common sense dictated that he ate at least something – he needed his senses to work properly. So he made his way to the bank of food replicators to take advantage on all that sophisticated Starfleet technology.

"Tomato soup," he ordered simply. That always worked, even on an upset stomach – plus, in his case tomato soup was comfort food… something he really needed at the moment.

The machine hummed briefly, but the food didn't appear. Instead, the well-known, polite and precisely accentuated female voice of _all_ computers aboard _all_ Starfleet vessels (not much imagination there, huh?) informed him:

"There are 14 varieties of tomato soup available from this replicator; with rice; with vegetables; Bolian style; with pasta; with…"

"Plain," Tom cut in. As a young and adventurous cadet, he'd tried the Bolian variety once, and didn't care for a repeated experience. The dratted replicator still wasn't satisfied, though."

"Specify hot or chilled."

Tom rolled his eyes, asking himself if the universe truly decided to punish him for all the mistakes of his life; it was a long list.

"Hot," he said, now thoroughly annoyed. "Hot, plain, tomato soup."

"The more sophisticated they get, the more complicated it is to get some basic food out of them," the soft, hollow voice of the chief engineer remarked, as the Benzite strolled to the other replicator and ordered his own lunch. "Stuffed sea berries with steamed algae salad and plankton sauce, Benzite-style. Double portion."

By the time Tom's replicator produced the single bowl of plain tomato soup, in the other open slot a rather large plate shimmered into existence, with what looked like half a dozen small jellyfish, surrounded by long, dark green, tendril-like straps of algae (a considerable heap of it at that), all generously sprinkled with some thick, greenish brown sauce.

Tom eyed the impressive amount of food warily, not sure he was up to watching the Benzite stuff it all into himself.

"Are you going to eat all that, just for lunch?" he asked, a little bewildered, shooting a pointed look at the already barrel-like midsection of the chief engineer.

"Well, I have to eat for five now," seeing his blank expression, Mendon grinned, the four facillae-like extensions framing his mouth-and-nose-slit (much like by the catfish on Earth) slightly trembling with amusement. "Similar to Terran sea-horses, in Benzites it's the males who carry the babies. They get conceived in the mother's body, then transferred into a special belly pouch of the father after the first two months via a reversed coupling, where they grow for another six months and are born fully developed."

This was slightly more than Tom _ever_ wanted to know about Benzite mating habits, but being a Starfleet brat he knew that not all species shared human reservations when it came to their sexual practices. Apparently, Benzites were one of those who found discussing such topics during lunch completely natural. _Ah, well, when in Benzar, do like the Benzites_, he thought, not sure how to react to Mendon's openness. Benzar not being a member of the Federation, there always remained a certain amount of confusion about what the fishheads considered acceptable and what not.

"So, you are…" Tom was unable to finish the sentence. Despite extensive courses of xenology at the Academy, the concept was just a little too weird for his taste.

"Mammals!" the Benzite chuckled softly. "So narrow-minded, even the best of them. Yes, I am with child, and that's completely normal for my kind. This is my last mission before an extended leave, as I'm due to give birth in six weeks' time."

"Isn't it a little risky to go to a deep space mission before… er…  in your… condition?" Tom asked awkwardly as they were seated and the Benzite dug into his weird food with enthusiasm.

"Usually, I wouldn't do it," Mendon agreed, but in this case, it's not a long way from home. I'm already scheduled for light duty on DS9, as my wife serves there, and Dr. Bashir is the best exobiologist in the whole sector, so I'll be in good hands. Captain Janeway only borrowed me for this mission from Commander Sisko because her own chief engineer had come down with some serious illness."

"So it's a temporary assignment only?" Tom asked. Mendon nodded, stuffing one of the jellyfish-like things (presumably a stuffed sea-berry) into his mouth in one bite. "Well, that explains it."

The Benzite tilted his head with a strange, lizard-like jerk to one side. Considering the fact that he seemed like he didn't actually _have_ a neck, it was a rather weird gesture. "Explains what?" he asked.

"Why you are sitting here with me, instead of keeping company with the senior staff over there," Tom nodded towards the other table where Cavit and Fitzgerald were still giving Harry a thorough brainwash. Mendon shrugged.

"Oh, them… Mr. Cavit isn't that bad, actually, aside from the fact that his Starfleet indoctrination was probably a little too successful. A military mind is seldom flexible. Especially in the second or third generation."

_I could tell you tales about that_, Paris thought – so, Cavit was a Fleet brat, too? – but out loud he only asked, "What about the doc?"

"He's a perfectionist If I ever saw one, and believe me, on Benzar nine out of ten people are perfectionists," Mendon replied thoughtfully. "It's usually a good thing for a physician; it limits the possibility of mistakes. But this one… I don't know." That strange jerk of the big, bald head again. "I felt like a lab rat on his examination table when he detected my… condition. It was most upsetting. And no, unlike Terran females, we do _not_ suffer from mood swings during pregnancy. We're only the carriers, after all."

He rose, pulling up to his full, impressive height. He seemed to shift the excess weight of his unborn progeny to a more balanced place, and grabbed the thoroughly cleaned plate.

"As you can see, Mr. Paris," he added as some form of goodbye, "you aren't the only outsider here." With a nod, he went to put the empty plate back into the replicator shot and left the Mess Hall.

Warming his fingers on the still too hot bowl of his soup, Tom glanced over to the other table and realized with a little surprise that Cavit and Fitzgerald were gone, too. He was so caught up in the unusual conversation with the Benzite that he hadn't even seen them leave. Poor Harry was sitting alone, staring at his mostly untouched meal like someone who's trying very had to make up his mind.

_Well, I can help him with that_, Tom decided, crossing the room and slipping into the seat across from Kim. _Best is to get over it as quickly and painlessly as possible._

"There, you see?" he said, not quite able to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "I told you it wouldn't take long."

Harry kept staring at his tray, conflicting emotions flicking over his face with warp speed. Finally, he looked up, directly into Tom's face, and asked in a small, disillusioned voice, "Is it true?"

Tom nodded slowly. There would be no use defending himself. Even if the ugly details weren't in every database, even if he managed to persuade Harry about the circumstances that would show the events in a slightly different light, the facts would still remain the same. His friends would still be dead. Killed by his own arrogance.

"Was the accident my fault?" he specified the question, and answered immediately, "Yeah. Pilot error. But it took me a while to admit it." _Because I thought I could do anything, no matter the circumstances. Because Parises don't make mistakes._

He shuddered, toying absently with the bowl of soup. The damn liquid had a strange orange hue and didn't even smell like tomatoes. "Awww, fourteen varieties, and they can't even get plain tomato soup right…"

The young ensign was still staring at him, brain working hard to process all the information he'd been provided during the last twenty minutes. Tom could almost see the little wheels turning inside his skull.

"They said you falsified reports.. ."

Tom stirred his weird-looking soup with vague disgust. _Not even comfort food is what it's supposed to be. I bet I could reprogram this thing to produce a decent blend…_ Yeah, he'd always been good with computers. _Too_ good. "That's right."

Kim seemed shaken by his admission. As if he'd expected Tom to lie. To defend himself. To accuse others.

"Why?" he asked innocently, and Tom fought the urge to groan. How could he expect this honest, naïve, freshly graduated kid to understand?

"What's the difference?" he asked, not quite able to hide his annoyance. "I _lied_!"

Because Parises don't make mistakes. Failure is unacceptable. Nothing less than perfection is tolerated.

Harry was still staring at him with those big, innocent eyes, obviously unable to understand the whole thing – but just as obviously willing to try, for some unfathomable reason.

"But then you came forward," the kid persisted, "and you admitted that it was your fault?"

_Yeah, and a fat lot of good it did got me_, Paris thought cynically, but was careful enough not to say it out loud. There was no need to alienate the kid, who, at least, was honestly trying to understand before condemning him like everyone else did. Well, _almost_ everyone.

"I'll tell you the truth, Harry," he sighed, pushing the soup aside, his appetite completely gone by now. "All I had to do was keep my mouth shut and I was home free. But I couldn't. The ghosts of those three dead officers came to me in the middle of the night and taught me the true meaning of Christmas..."

And they had kept coming ever since. Oliana Mirren. Jake Curland. Jean Hajar. _Especially_ Jean. What Nick had failed to achieve – killing her in a freak accident – Tom had finished for him. _All remains in the family. Ain't it just great?_ he thought sarcastically.

"So I confessed," he finished in a tight, controlled voice. "Worst mistake I ever made. But not my last. After they cashiered me out of Starfleet, I went out looking for a fight and found the Maquis..." He snorted. What a poor summary of those months of Hell. But that was his own problem, not Harry's. "And on my _first_ assignment, I was caught."

And it was such an easy mission. The Maquis equivalent of a milk run. Theoretically impossible to get caught, unless one ran deliberately into the open arms of a Fleet patrol – or the patrol got an insider tip. No wonder the Maquis believed that he had betrayed them.

Kim played with his food again, his eyes thoughtful. There hadn't been such conflicts in his sheltered life – not yet. So far, he'd been lucky. But now he began to wonder what was waiting for him in the unknown vastness of deep space. He wasn't _that_ naïve as not to know that sometimes even good, otherwise promising people got drowned in the backwash of their mistakes. It wasn't fair, sure. But that was _life_.

"It must have been especially tough for you," he said, remembering certain details he'd heard just recently. "I mean, being the son of an admiral and all that."

Oh yeah, the Admiral. Tom remembered with painful clarity his father – the way the Admiral looked toward the end of the hearing. As if some particularly disgusting insect had crawled up on his spotless uniform. Fortunately, he wasn't present at the second tribunal. By then, the captured ex-Maquis hadn't been his son anymore.

Tom never knew being disowned could be such a relief, under certain circumstances.

"Frankly, I think it was tougher on my 'father' than it was on me," he replied, picking up his now cold soup and tossing it into the slot for recycling. Then a thought occurred to him. 

"Look, Harry," he turned back to the kid in all honesty, "I know those guys told you to stay away from me. And you know what? You ought to listen to 'em, in your own best interest.. I'm not exactly a good luck charm."

_And that was the understatement of the century_, he added for himself.

Harry looked up at him intently. If the frown between his eyes was any indication, he was just about to work himself up to an important decision.

"I don't need anyone to choose my friends for me," he finally stated proudly.

Tom couldn't help but smile. The kid was so adorable in his heroic attempt to look all adult and responsible. And all that for Tom's sake. That had certainly been a first, for a long time.

"Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have some help, after all," Paris said teasingly, rubbing his tired eyes. "You seem to have a lousy taste in choosing your friends." But he couldn't deny that the kid's loyalty – especially as he hadn't done anything grand to earn it – warmed his heart a little.

First Stadi, then the Benzite engineer and now Harry. Could it be that just for once his outlook was taking a turn for the better?

Unless I screw up everything, as always. Or get them killed, too.

To Kim's credit, he recognized a joke when he heard one. Even such a lame, half-hearted one. He took a deep breath to riposte, but at that moment Tom's comm badge chirped.

"Janeway to Paris."

Tom tapped his badge and his mood darkened again, guessing why he was called. "Go ahead."

"Report to the bridge," that scratchy voice ordered. "We're approaching the Badlands."

"Acknowledged," Tom replied flatly, tapping the comm badge again, and with Harry following closely, headed out of the Mess Hall.

The hunt has begun. Now he had to see how he could save the prey. He would _not_ get any more friends killed. Or captured.

Never again.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**Note:** Oliana Mirren and Jake Curland were young people trying to get into Starfleet Academy in the 1st season TNG episode "Coming of Age". Oliana actually succeeded. Jean Hajar was the navigator of Starfleet Academy's elite Nova Squadron that performed the illegal Kolvoort Starburst maneuver that caused the death of one of their team-mates (See: "The First Duty", TNG). Making them the crew that died at Caldik Prime was my doing.


	8. Chapter 7: The Hunt

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless. Yes, some dialogue is still taken from the pilot episode. Yes, those lines still don't belong to me.

**Rating:** PG-13, for some rather disturbing images and implied m/m relationship.

Beta read by the generous Brigid, whom I owe eternal gratitude.

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE HUNT 

When Tom reached the Bridge the image of the Badlands was already filling the main viewscreen; all angry flashes and serpentine ribbons of plasma fire lashing and flaring against the background of far-away stellar constellations and shadow-like nebulae. It was a terrific sight for those who didn't know the perils hidden behind that violent beauty.

Tom knew it all too well. He'd never forget the moment when he'd first piloted that battered Maquis ship – originally a light frigate, mustered out of Starfleet at least forty years earlier – into that untamed maze of raw energy. He must have been a little green in the face, because Chakotay became infuriatingly amused, saying, "Don't worry, Paris, no Maquis ship has been torn apart by these storms – at least not recently."

He got the ridiculously-named vessel (who came up with the grand idea to call it _Thor's Hammer_ was a question nobody could answer) through the storms safely. And at least the Badlands protected the Maquis from Starfleet. The ships that were powerful enough to take out the fast but out-gunned Maquis fighters were too big to get safely into this area. And the smaller ships were just no match for the Maquis.

_Until now_, Paris thought bitterly, contemplating the irony of fate that had put him onto the bridge of the very ship that Starfleet had built to hunt down their own people. People whose only crime was not being ready to give up their homes for Federation policies; for a treaty that, in the end, would not work anyway. Those desk-jockey admirals who made the deal with Cardassia were nothing more than a herd of dumb grass-eaters, trying to outsmart a pack of wolves, not realizing that no matter what, in the end they would lose. It was the sheer mass of the Federation alone that kept Cardassia at bay – barely.

Tom was surprised by how much his short time in the Maquis had changed his view of Federation politics. No, he'd not committed himself to "the cause", but he'd learned a great deal among these people. That, and he'd had enough time in jail to think over all the things he'd learned.

He'd learned what thinking like a predator meant. And that this way of thinking was what kept the Maquis fighting against impossible odds, against a whole empire of larger, more vicious predators. And now even against the federation of narrow-minded bureaucrats that had sold them to their enemies.

And now Tom Paris was expected to turn what he had learned from the Maquis against them, so that the brass, including the man he would never call his father again, could celebrate themselves for keeping the treaty that had caused the whole mess in the first place..

Well, it was not likely to happen.

Janeway was standing at the tactical station when they entered the bridge. She looked back when the door whooshed, as if scrutinizing the face of Tom now that the reason for his presence became important. Tom put up his usual carefree expression – no reason to raise any suspicions – and met an equally neutral face. He had no doubt that Janeway disliked him deeply (quite frankly, the feeling was mutual), but she was careful enough not to show her feelings in front of the entire bridge crew.

The captain waved him over to the tactical console, pushing a reluctant Cavit (who glared at Paris as one would at a dead rat) out of the way and tapping at one of the tactical displays over the bent shoulder of Lt. Rollins.

"Plasma storms were measured at levels three and four," Rollins was saying. Janeway nodded.

"The Cardassians gave us the last known heading of the Maquis ship," she explained. "And we have charts of the plasma storm activity the day it disappeared. With a little help, we might be able to approximate its course."

_With a little help_, Tom thought, resisting the urge to snort. _Yeah, Captain, I _am_ going to help all right – but not you_.

He stepped closer to the console for a better view of the readouts. The screen marked the plasma discharges with blinking little lights that flickered up and retreated again in a random patter, while the jagged line of the Maquis' course glowed steadily, drawing a seemingly crazed path between them. Nevertheless, Tom recognized the work of an excellent pilot – the ship had flown so close to the discharges that with a less capable man at the helm it would have been destroyed a dozen times.

And since Tom himself was _not_ on that Maquis ship, it could only mean one person: Chakotay. No one else in the Maquis would be able to fly _that_ path and still be alive. They had truly found him and his crew.

"The Cardassians have inserted a black marker at the point where they've been forced to break pursuit," Rollins pointed out the place in question, "and this dotted line shows how far their sensors have tracked the Maquis after that."

All eyes turned expectantly to Paris. He made what he knew was a very convincing show of thinking – showing only what they wanted to see.

"I'd guess they were trying to get to one of the M-class planetoids in the Terikof Belt," he mused out loud.

He could give them _that_ much without giving away anything of importance. Everyone with basic knowledge about the Badlands knew that the Maquis had their repairing stations scattered all over those planetoids. He needed to stay as close to the truth as possible for Janeway and her people to believe him. And it seemed that they did.

Cavit shouldered his way over to the big security officer and bent over the screen, too. "That's beyond the Moriya system," he said, pointing at one corner on the upper side. 

Rollins nodded, watching the flickering lights on his display with a frown.

"Then the plasma storms would have forced them in this direction," he replied, tapping a few controls and correcting the dotted line accordingly. 

Janeway nodded her agreement. "Adjust our course to match," she ordered Cavit.

"Aye, Captain," the grey-haired man acknowledged and left the tactical console to hurry down again to Stadi's side.

To Tom's surprise, Stadi glanced back over her shoulder, directly at him. The look of her Byzantine eyes was unreadable. Was it pity? Was it disappointment? He couldn't tell. It lasted only a fleeting moment, then she turned back to her controls, concentrating on Cavit's orders.

"The Cardassians claimed they forced the Maquis ship into a plasma storm, where it was destroyed," Janeway noted, settling back into her command chair in her usual, stiff manner. "But our probes haven't picked up any debris."

"A plasma storm might not leave any debris," Tom pointed out, knowing first hand the destructive powers of those discharges. Besides, if he could make Janeway believe that the Maquis had been destroyed (together with her precious spy on board), she might call off the hunt.

Of course, she was not dumb enough to buy such a cheap excuse.

"We'd still be able to pick up a resonance trace from the warp core," she riposted.

_Touch_, Tom admitted, refusing to offer any further suggestions. The woman was many things, but stupid was certainly not one of those. Well, not as long as practical aspects of spacefaring were concerned. But at this time the Fates decided to intervene on Tom's side, for a change – in the person of Harry Kim.

"Captain…," the ensign bent over his console, working frantically. "I'm reading a coherent tetryon beam scanning us."

Tom stiffened, knowing that the Maquis could not possibly have any such technology. It seemed that while chasing the fox, the hounds woke up something bigger. Make that a _lot_ bigger.

Janeway frowned, forgetting her less-than-helpful guide at once, "Origin, Mr. Kim?"

Harry concentrated on his readings, his insecurities momentarily forgotten, and showing his true abilities for the first time. "I'm not sure," he admitted, actually surprised, as if he'd expected to be able to identify the source. _Damn, the kid must be good._ Strong fingers danced at the controls for a moment, then Harry looked up, clearly worried. "There's also a displacement wave moving toward us."

Janeway paled, raising to her feet. As a science officer by trade, she probably could calculate the approaching danger more accurately than anyone else present. "Onscreen."

Kim brought up the image, and Tom had the impression of a tsunami racing toward them in house-high, angry waves. It looked eerily like the cheap shock effects of 20th century disaster movies – only that _this_ thing, whatever it might be, was real. He involuntarily grabbed the back of the command chair, as if bracing for impact, and wasted a fleeting thought about the irony of coming here to possibly die, just because he wanted to get out of prison.

Janeway stepped closer to the viewscreen, staring at it with the morbid curiosity of a born scientist who is ready to ignore any danger in face of a new discovery.

"Analysis," she said in a clipped tone.

"It's some kind of polarized magnetic variation," Kim reported vaguely. Whatever it might be, it obviously wasn't recorded in the Starfleet database.

Cavit turned back, leaning over the rail near the tactical station. For the first time since Tom had come aboard, the first officer's face showed not the usual scowl but the keen intellect he usually hid behind it. "Captain, we might be able to disperse it with a graviton particle field," he said.

Janeway nodded absently, unable to turn her eyes away from the gigantic wave of destruction that was racing toward them at high speed. "Do it."

Without acknowledgement, Cavit ran up to the tactical console, waving Rollins out of his way. The man was only a replacement, and such a delicate operation demanded the highest level of expertise. Janeway, her eyes still fixed on the viewscreen, raised her voice over the noise of frantic bridge activity.

"Red alert." Then, touching Stadi's shoulder lightly, "Move us away from it, Lieutenant."

Stadi flinched – Betazoids, like Vulcans, generally disliked being touched by anyone but family and close friends – but reversed their speed immediately, racing _Voyager_ back into the direction they had come.

"New heading," she confirmed calmly. "Four-one-mark-one-eight-zero. "

"Initiating graviton field," Cavit added, launching the powerful burst of energy on its way – a burst powerful enough to shake the whole ship, beyond the abilities of the inertial dampers to compensate.

_It won't work_, Tom realized, watching that incredible wave of destructive energy rolling towards them, unstoppably. As an experienced surfer, he could see that no matter what they threw into its way, the anomaly would overrun them by sheer momentum.

"The graviton field had no effect," Harry reported, confirming Tom's estimate.

"Full impulse," Janeway commanded, not yet ready to accept the futility of their efforts. "Turn her into the wave, Lieutenant Stadi!"

_It won't work_, Tom repeated for himself, but Stadi's only answer was a sharp nod, working with amazing calmness (just a _little_ bit slower than Tom could have done it, really), and the ship hummed with power as she brought it about to a position that _might_ prove slightly less disastrous in the impact.

Watching her, Tom balled his fists. Dammit she _was_ good, but he could have been better! If only the captain had allowed him to fly the ship through the Badlands in the first place! Sure, he never intended to lead her to Chakotay's trail, but maybe, just maybe, his superior reflexes could have saved _Voyager_. Regardless of what people might think of him, this wasn't about arrogance. He was simply better, and he knew that. Even Chakotay admitted never having seen a better pilot, including himself. And nobody could accuse Chakotay of liking him.

He looked back at Harry with regret. _Poor kid, his first assignment, and he's going to die…_ Harry, however, was still watching his readouts with the stubborn determination of every green newbie who wants to prove himself, regardless of the costs.

"The wave will intercept us in 12 seconds..."

Janeway glared at the viewscreen as if she could stop that cosmic monstrosity by sheer willpower. "Can we go to warp?"

Unfortunately, cosmic phenomena seldom respected the will of mere humans, no matter how strong that will was.

"Not until we clear the plasma field, Captain," Stadi replied with a calmness that was positively eerie. Tom knew that Betazoids were able to clamp down their mental shields with brutal force, detaching themselves from all emotions, even their own, in times of acute emergency. Obviously, Stadi was making use of that handy ability right now.

For some reason Harry felt the need to count down the remaining seconds of their lives.  "…five seconds…"

Janeway hurried back to her command chair, slapping at the intercom switch on its arm, shouting. "Brace for impact!"

"… three... ," damn it, Harry was still counting. What for?

And then the tidal wave crashed down on them like the raised fist of some enraged deity that had hold back its fury for too long and now finally released it. Stadi felt a wash of killing heat as the helm panel exploded into her face with a blooming roar, and a hard wall of violently compressed air tore her seat out of its holding clamps and threw her across the lower bridge level. The impact was hard enough to mercifully knock her unconscious _before_ her spinal column snapped. The last thing in her blurring field of vision was Tom Paris, jumping over the bride railing from the upper deck, not necessarily of his own free will…

Landing among the debris of the crushed ceiling that had buried Lieutenant Commander Cavit mere seconds earlier, Tom Paris made a rather hard contact with the deck himself. _It seems that the hunt is off_, he thought with morbid satisfaction, before darkness engulfed him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

According to the miraculously still working on-board computer, it took 22.7 standard minutes until those of the bridge crew who were still alive started regaining consciousness – more or less.

"Report!" Janeway barked, and Tom, jerking back to awareness with a rotten headache, was actually grateful for that scratchy voice. As much as it grated on his nerves otherwise, he had to admit that it was designed to wake everyone who hadn't been dead for at least three days. As he opened his bleary eyes, he found himself lying face-down on the lower command level, smoke spiraling all around him. And on the edge of his vision, something seemed to be burning. Several somethings, actually.

He struggled to his knees, taking a still hazy look around, his sluggish brain still not quite able to take in all the damage. _I must have hit my head pretty hard…_ He searched for Harry and found that the kid, amazingly enough, had already made it back behind his panel and was scanning through screen after screen for information. His face was badly bruised and his sleeve scorched, revealing burn marks all over his forearms, but they didn't seem to slow him down a bit.

"Hull breach on Deck Fourteen!" Kim called, working with grim determination. "Comm lines to Engineering are down. Trying to reestablish…"

The mentioning of engineering finally shook Tom out of his haze. Engineering – they must have been hit hard, too. Was Mendon all right? Were pregnant Benzites more resilient than pregnant humans? Would his babies survive the trauma?

Realizing that he couldn't do anything for the Benzite at the moment, Tom looked around to see who else might need his help. He found Stadi sprawled, unmoving, beside her shattered helm console. Still dizzy, he crawled over her on his hands and knees, barely aware of the captain kicking aside debris from the collapsed ceiling and barking orders somewhere behind him.

"Repair crews," Janeway shouted above the sirens and the clanging of metal pieces she was kicking out of her way. "Seal off hull breach on Deck Fourteen..."

"Aye, Captain," a female voice, shaken but determined, answered from somewhere. 

"Casualty reports coming in," Lt. Rollins called from the tactical console. The big man was pale as death itself, but otherwise unharmed. "Sickbay is not responding."

_Wonderful, just wonderful_, Tom cursed inwardly, pulling on Stadi's shoulder. Her upper body rolled over limply in a most unnatural angle, revealing a badly burnt face and unseeing eyes. Tom reached for the pulse in her neck, not truly expecting her to have survived an explosion the size of what destroyed the helm console, but not willing to give up on her just yet.

"Bridge to Sickbay," Janeway called, giving up her fruitless efforts to get her first officer's broken body out from under the ceiling's crushed remnants. "Doctor, can you hear me?"

There was still no response from sickbay, and with a frustrated sigh, Janeway moved toward where Stadi lay on the lower level's floor.

"Paris, how's Stadi?" she asked with impressive composure. "Is she dead?"

Tom reached for the pulse again – and looked up in amazement. "Not yet. But she will be, if we don't get her to sickbay soon."

"I see," Janeway looked up to Rollins. "Can you initialize a site-to-site transport from your station, Lieutenant?"

The big man nodded. "Things seem to function from this side, Captain. But sickbay is still not responding."

"It doesn't matter. Beam Stadi over; if the doctor is incapacitated, we can still activate the EMH."

"Aye, Captain."

Stadi's body shimmered briefly and disappeared. Janeway coughed, the bridge was still full of smoke, although a female crewmember had been able to quench the small fires on the consoles and was now working to get the environmental system back online.

"Ventilation system is coming back, Captain," she said apologetically. Janeway nodded, twisting back a long tress that has come loose from her priggish bun.

"Thank you, Andrews. Come now and help me to free Mr. Cavit. We can't leave him lie here, even…"

_Even if he's dead_, Tom finished inwardly, agreeing with her for a change. The body had to be freed from under the crashed ceiling and beamed to the morgue. There was a grim chance that the late first officer wouldn't be alone there.

"What about Engineering?" Janeway asked, starting to push aside parts of what had been the ceiling once. Rollins shook his head, still struggling with his console.

"No contact so far. Auxiliary helm control seems to be functional, though."

Janeway frowned, coming to a decision she clearly didn't like. "Very well. Mr. Paris, bring us to full stop and engage autopilot. We need to regroup."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied flatly. Just like anyone else, he was sorry for the wounded and the dead, but having the helm controls under his fingertips again, even only for the short time needed to stop the ship, hurt in a different, more profound way. _Especially_ because he knew it wouldn't last a nanosecond longer than absolutely necessary.

Slipping into the seat behind the auxiliary helm control panel, he touched the smooth surface lovingly. Sure, the configurations were slightly different, but he had watched Stadi long enough to know what to do. _Voyager_ obeyed his touch beautifully – like his old sailing ship on a nice day over the waves.

"Full stop," he reported all too soon, and rose from the seat before she could order him out of it. "Autopilot engaged."

"Captain," Harry interrupted, "there's something out there!"

She looked up with an exasperated scowl from the grim work of digging out her first officer from the debris. "I need a better description than that, Mr. Kim." 

"I don't know," Harry blushed, working desperately to get anything useful from his skittish equipment. "I'm reading... I'm not sure what I'm reading."

"Can you get the viewscreen operational?" Janeway demanded.

"I'm trying…"

The viewscreen sputtered to life in the exact moment when Tom finally got around the auxiliary helm panel and stepped up to the bridge railing to get a better look at it. The image was slightly blurred, with surges and hisses of static flaring across the screen's surface, but it cleared up little by little, revealing the most unexpected sight that any of them had ever seen.

At first sight, the structure hanging before the background of star-spotted darkness reminded Tom of the crappy 3D-covers of his beloved Perry Rhodan novels. It looked like some sort of orbital platform, with peculiarly shaped rings reaching out in every direction from a central segment. '_Perry Rhodan Against the Floating City'_, the absurd title idea of yet another crappy novel came to Tom's mind. _It would have been a big hit some three hundred years ago_. 

Abruptly, he recognized the small speck near the underside of the huge array as the Maquis ship. Realization hit him, and all of a sudden, he didn't find the whole thing funny anymore.

They had found the _Crazy Horse_. Despite all his efforts to prevent it, despite the cosmic interference of whatever higher powers were in play, they'd found them. Meaning, that Greg would go to prison, and it would be Tom's fault.

He had failed. Again.

Fragmented memories of his first weeks on the _Thor's Hammer_ flooded Tom's brain, as he watched the smaller but equally battered Maquis ship floating dead in space. Those were not easy times. He'd been a wreck when he came aboard, brain fuzzed by too much booze and drugs. Chakotay had put him up with Greg, telling his best friend to take care of the stray pilot he'd found them and to see that Paris got dried out and taken down from the stuff he'd been poisoning himself with, because they needed a pilot who had all his senses together.

Afterwards (mostly in prison, where he'd had too much time to think) Tom often wondered how Greg had managed to achieve what Uncle Nick never could: bringing him through those first weeks and keeping him clean. How he was still _able_ to fly while going through withdrawal was a test of his fortitude. It was brutal – he'd never have made it through it without Greg's patient strength and gruff kindness. That burly man had a heart as big as a solar system and as soft as cotton.

Fragmented memories. Greg, holding his head over the loo while he puked his guts out for what must have been the sixth time in a single night. Greg, washing his face with a damp cloth. Greg, forcing him to rinse out his mouth and clean his teeth every time after he'd thrown up – and the strange feeling of dignity it gave him. Greg, forcing him to eat something the next morning, so that the acids wouldn't eat holes in his empty stomach.

Greg, holding him safely in those big arms when the nightmares came. Greg, murmuring comforting nonsense into his ear in that rough voice of his. The big, solid body of Greg, spooned up behind him, warming his chilled bones, protecting him against the rest of the world. The gentle roaming of those calloused hands all over his body. The easy acceptance when he asked for more. The wonderful feeling of exquisite fullness when they joined their needy flesh to keep out loneliness for a short time.

It had little to do with the actual sex and nothing with romance. Tom had always been a ladies' man, and after his time in prison he doubted that he'd ever lie with a man again. As for Greg, he was just recovering from having been divorced by his wife because of some obscure religious belief that only Bajorans could understand. But he had never felt so safe in his entire life as he had in those nights with Greg – a good friend, the only one he had actually made in that dark period of his life.

And now he was about to bring this only friend into captivity. Was he really destined to destroy everyone who had the bad luck to get close to him?

"Captain," Harry's numb voice jerked him out of his rapidly deepening self-pity, " if these sensors are working, we're over 70,000 light years from where we were."

There was a sudden silence on the bridge. All eyes turned to Harry, too stunned to react, and he added lamely:

"We're on the other side of the galaxy. "

TBC


	9. Chapter 8: Damage Control

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.

CHAPTER EIGHT: DAMAGE CONTROL 

_The other side of the galaxy!_ The same sentence that sent the rest of the surviving bridge crew into deep shock, caused almost ridiculous relief in Tom. He knew he was being selfish and not yet fully aware of the bigger picture, but the only thing he was able to think at the moment was the fact that he hadn't delivered Greg and the others into the hands of their jailers after all.

He might have gotten them killed, of course, extending his bad karma all over them due to the mere fact that he had been with them for a while. But every Maquis would prefer death to prison, and he knew that. Not out of some weird sense of honour (save perhaps the few Klingons among them); it was simply better for morale to have martyrs than to know that one's friends or family were rotting in prison. It was that simple.

Janeway, overcoming her first shock, whirled around to face her operations officer. "What about the Maquis ship?" she asked.

Kim rubbed his bleary eyes, concentrating on his readouts once more. "I'm not reading any life signs on the Maquis ship."

_Gee, because if you did, they wouldn't be here anymore_, Paris thought sarcastically. _They were got lost days ago and could have been here the whole time!_

Still, the fact that the _Crazy Horse_ was abandoned, didn't necessarily mean that her crew was dead. The Maquis were resourceful. And Chakotay hadn't led the Advanced Tactical Training courses at Starfleet Academy for nothing.

Apparently, Janeway had come to the same conclusions, because she jerked her chin towards the spidery structure that dominated their main screen, asking, "What about that... that array?"

Harry shrugged apologetically. "Our sensors can't penetrate it."

_Yep, definitely a bigger predator_, Tom nodded to himself. This time Starfleet won't be able to shake its superior technology threateningly, just to get its wish. The bigger shark might have swallowed their prey, and there was a distinct possibility that they would become the next course.

Janeway remained silent for a while, studying the rhythmic flashes of radiant energy throbbing out from the center of the structure, watching them sparkle off into the distance and vanish. "Any idea what those pulses are that are coming from it, Mr. Kim?"

"Massive bursts of radiant energy," Harry stated the obvious while calling up more readings. "They seem to be directed toward a nearby G-type star system."

"Try hailing the Array," Janeway ordered in what Starfleet cadets used to call 'the best Captain Kirk-manner'. It usually meant the tendency amongst Starfleet captains to try bullying aliens a lot more powerful than themselves and wind their crew out of harm's way with a good bluff. Admiral Owen Paris was considered to have it perfected to an art form, and apparently it was one of the many things he'd taught his protégée back on the good old _Al-Batani_.

Kim acknowledged the order with a hurried nod and tried his best to obey. Paris waited for further orders (beyond having stopped the ship that is), in face of a dire need for helping hands. But nothing came.

_Of course_, he thought with bitter amusement, _she would rather allow someone to die from the lack of help than give me even the smallest responsibility if she can avoid it, no matter under what consequences. I'm not an officer here, after all._

Janeway's comm badge chirped before he could confront her about her misplaced priorities, and she tapped the badge to activate it.

"Engineering to Bridge," the comm channel crackled with static so madly that the male voice calling them was barely recognizable. Nevertheless, Tom was quite sure that it couldn't be the Benzite – the sound of it was different.

"Bridge here," Janeway replied, obviously recognizing the caller. "Is that you, Mr. Carey?"

"Aye, Captain, "the engineer named Carey replied. "We have some severe damage here… The chief's dead. Possibility of a warp core breach…"

_Oh no_, Tom clenched his teeth in helpless fury, _not him, please! Could the little ones still be saved?_ He felt he _had_ to do something. He couldn't simply let the unborn babies die in their father's body. If he only could get there somehow…

"Secure all engineering systems," Janeway ordered the slightly panicked junior engineer. "I'm on my way."

"As she hurried toward the turbolift, Kim looked up from his panel. "No response from the Array," he reported glumly. _Gee, what a surprise…_

Janeway stopped dead in her tracks, frowning. "Ensign," she waved him away from his station, "get down to Sickbay. See what's going on. Mr. Rollins, the bridge is yours."

With that, she marched into the turbolift, without as much as a glance back. Rollins stepped down to the command chair, answering the already closed turbolift door dutifully, "Aye, Captain."

Kim was about to leave the bridge as well when Tom hurried up to him and grabbed his arm. 'Harry, wait for me!" Then, turning slightly to Rollins who, after all, was in charge of the bridge at the moment, "Lieutenant, may we try to get a lock on the chief and beam him directly to sickbay?"

"What for?" Rollins asked, a little harshly from sheer frustration. "He's dead. You heard Carey."

"I did, but the babies may still be alive," Tom replied, wishing desperately that the big man would understood him quickly, instead of wasting valuable time. "Chief Mendon was a Benzite, Lieutenant, and he was pregnant – just a few weeks before giving birth."

Harry stared at him in utter shock, but Rollins simply nodded his understanding. He was no expect in exobiology but had been long enough in Starfleet to accept the biological peculiarities of other races.

"How do you know about it?" was all he asked. Tom shrugged, his eyes saddening.

"He made a joke at lunch about having to eat for five now. I asked why and he told me."

"I see," Rollins looked at Harry. "Ensign, beam the chief to sickbay before you get down there. Maybe something still could be done for the babies. Mr. Paris, do you have any experience with providing first aid?"

"I have been fully trained as a field medic," Tom answered thankful for the first time that the Admiral had forced him to take that particular course, "but that was years ago."

"Better than nothing," Rollins shrugged. "Accompany ensign Kim in sickbay then, your training may prove useful."

"Understood," Tom nodded crisply and followed Harry to the turbolift. It felt so good to be useful for a change even though he knew that his limited knowledge wouldn't make much difference. He made a mental note to thank Rollins later.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When _Voyager_ was first hit by the unknown force, head nurse T'Prena was helping Dr. Fitzgerald to run calibrating samples through the cellular diagnostic sequencer. With no patients currently in sickbay – and with their preparation time having been cut short before leaving DS9 – bringing the medical equipment up to date was the most logical thing for them to do. They had to finish their incomplete preparations before things became dangerous. They were in the Badlands, after all – not the safest place in the Alpha Quadrant.

So they were working like the well-oiled team they had been for years. The doctor was running the samples, while T'Prena checked the operation of the sequencer with the help of one of the diagnostic computers, standing about a meter away.

This simple fact saved her life. When the ship lurched violently, throwing her backwards to the floor and the sequencer exploded directly into Dr. Fitzgerald's face, only the edge of the escaping fire licked over her helpless body. Even so, the pain was excruciating, and she recognized with cold detachment the rupture of her eardrums. But at least her Vulcan discipline spared her the panic that would trigger a highly illogical reaction in a human crewmember.

She realized that she needed to hold her breath until the fire leapt over her body or else her lungs would be seared shut and she'd suffocate in approximately 6.72 seconds. She kept her eyes tightly shut, too – she didn't need to see her own body to diagnose the third-degree burns she must have suffered and the chilling numbness that could only be caused by severely damaged neurological systems and dangerously low blood pressure.

A human would have fallen into deep shock and been dead already. But she was Vulcan. It was within her abilities to survive even this extent of damage – if she followed medical protocol.

Of course, she would need some assistance with _that_. Risking one eye open, she saw that the fire had already passed her unfeeling body. Now it was safe to speak – as long as she avoided any sharp intakes of breath.

"Computer…," she heard some sluggish reaction from a console on the other side of the some-filled room. "Initiate emergency… medical… holo… holo…," she lost consciousness before she could finish the most important order of her life. So she didn't see the limp body of Lieutenant Stadi shimmering into existence on one of the biobeds.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Engineering looked like the glowing depths of hell.

Junior Engineer Joseph Carey was very near to complete, mindless panic. Three of his fellow engineers were dead already – one of them the friendly Benzite relief chief, whose balanced manner he'd come to value greatly, after having served under _Voyager_'s actual chief engineer for five years. Not that Sarah MacDougal would be a bad person – and she was a pretty good engineer as well – but she never got over losing her position aboard the _Enterprise-D_. It had been due to the silly prank of an intoxicated, but unfortunately ingenious, young boy, which had very nearly caused the destruction of Starfleet's brand new flagship(1).

Carey never truly understood why Chief MacDougal had been blamed for the whole incident. Shouldn't it have been the duty of the kid's mother to keep him under better surveillance? And shouldn't security have kept all unauthorized persons out of engineering? Joe's own sons were too young to cause that sort of trouble; still, had his family been aboard like on the really big ships, he'd have seen that the kids never even got near such dangerous areas. Of course, _his_ kids weren't spoiled brats. Moira took care of _that_. And living in a big family with grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins all on the same spot, taught them to adapt very quickly.

He shook his head, chasing away the pleasant but distracting memories of Josh and Clark, and tried to concentrate on the actual matters that needed to be handled quickly. He spotted Bill Chapman escorting those of the injured who still could walk out into the corridor, while Vorik, deadly pale under his Vulcan mask of serenity, was putting out fires with a hand-held extinguisher. Boylan – when did he find the time to put on an emergency suit? – was checking the Warp core for pressure, and Nicoletti, her short, dark curls singed by the fire, worked frantically to get the diagnostic systems back online.

Sight was limited by the smoke and escaping gas that was rapidly filling the whole room, and the precise, unaffected voice of the computer kept announcing:

"Warning. Warp core microfracture. Breach imminent… Warning. Warp core…"

_Damn it!_ He was not trained to deal with a disaster of this magnitude alone. Sure, he had been in Starfleet for eleven years by now, and he had seen his share of close calls – especially on the _Rutledge_, under Captain Maxwell(2) – but there always had been an older, more experienced officer whom he could consult.

_Don't lose it now, Joey_, he warned himself. _Remember, Miles is dealing with this sort of shit  on a daily basis. And with unreliable Cardassian technology, at that!_

But that was an entirely different situation, and he knew it. He was a good engineer, but he could never compare his solid knowledge with the intuitive talent of the one and only Miles Edward O'Brien. That's why O'Brien was the CPO of Deep Space Nine, while Joe was still serving as a junior engineer.

Someone grabbed his shoulder from behind. "What's the warp core pressure?" the captain asked.

"Twenty-one hundred kilopascals and falling," Sue Nicoletti answered in Carey's stead, who pulled a face. _Damn, it didn't look good._

Janeway moved deeper into the engine room, her chin tucked forth with stubborn determination. It was a strangely reassuring sight – to know that one's captain wasn't ready to give up easily.

"Lock down the magnetic constrictors," she ordered, giving Carey the shock of his life.

"Captain…," he stared at her for a moment, too shocked for any immediate reaction. Sure, what she wanted _could_ work – under ideal circumstances. Needless to say, circumstances were far from ideal right now.

"Captain," he began again, finally gathering his wits, "If we lock them down at these pressure levels, we might not be able to reinitialize the dilithium reaction.

"Warning. Warp core microfracture…"

"We don't have a choice," Janeway snapped impatiently. "We've got to get the reaction rate down before we try to seal it."

Which was true, of course. So Carey only sighed, waving silent commands to Chapman and Vorik to join them, and started working.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Paris and Kim raced down the dark, cluttered corridor that led from the turbolift to the sickbay doors – which refused to open for them automatically. Harry frowned, grabbing for his tricorder.

"I'm reading fires inside," he said, a little startled. Even in the 24th century, fire in space was a horrible thing to face. "We'll have to be careful when we open the doors."

"Assuming we _can_ get them open at all," Tom replied dryly, kicking the panel that hid the fire extinguisher open. He pulled the hand-held tool loose from its mount and gave it to Harry, taking the ensign's tricorder in exchange. "Let me go first. I'm a medic, after all – and, unlike you, I'm not crucial for maintaining the ship. Nobody's gonna miss _me_."

"_I would!_" Harry said vehemently, holding the extinguisher as if it were some sort of weapon. Tom snorted, not making any comment, while he worked to force the manual controls to cooperate. Finally, the double doors slid aside with a protesting groan, and the terrible stench of burnt flesh struck them in the face, together with the acid smoke of electronic fire.

Harry ducked under Tom's arm and darted to the far wall where the fire had almost reached the store of chemicals. Tom coughed into his arm, searching for lifesigns in the near-darkness – and practically stumbled over the sprawled bodies at the base of an exploded console.

He knew Fitzgerald was dead, even before the tricorder confirmed his fear. The nurse, however… He squatted down next to her limp body, blinking rapidly to clear his eyes, too blinded with smoke to see much. Her uniform was blasted open, stiff along the edges where the fabric had melted and burned, but, surprisingly, her injuries didn't seem lethal. _Fitzgerald's body must have screened her from the worst of the explosions,_ Tom thought, lifting one clammy wrist and looking for her pulse. It was weak and erratic beneath his touch, like the heartbeat of a wounded bird, but at least it was there.

"They must have been right next to the console when it exploded," Tom closed the tricorder. "Harry, can you switch the systems to emergency power? I need to find a first aid kit; and do something about the air, we're gonna suffocate here."

"I can try," came the uncertain answer, but in less than a minute, the ventilation system roared back to life and started pumping out the bitter smoke from the room, replacing it with recycled air. At the same time, emergency lights blinked on, first dimly, then brightening to almost normal levels, and slowly, one by one, the still working consoles awoke.

Tom pulled the sheet from one of the biobeds and draped it over the doctor's broken body. The wounded would start arriving soon, and their dead CMO wouldn't be a comforting first sight. Then he scooped up the unconscious nurse and laid her on the biobed next to Stadi's. He couldn't do anything for Stadi, her condition was too severe for his limited knowledge, but if he could wake the nurse to assist him…

He found the first aid kit and quickly prepared a hypospray with Tri-Ox and an analgesic that matched the Vulcan metabolism and injected the nurse with it. After that, he grabbed a dermal regenerator and began to treat her wounds, hoping that the famous self-healing abilities of her race would do the rest.

Dragged back from the verge of her healing trance, T'Prena opened her eyes with considerable effort. She saw the Starfleet observer whom Dr. Fitzgerald seemed to have a deep-rooted dislike for, working on her injuries with a dermal regenerator – and with acceptable efficiency. What was he doing here? She raised a hand to stop him for a moment.

"The… doctor…?" she asked, coughing, and felt the coppery taste of blood in her mouth.

"Don't move," the human warned, "you might have internal bleeding. The doc is dead. And I'm just a field medic – I can't deal with this alone."

"Initiate… the EMH…" she whispered before sinking back to unconsciousness again.

Tom shot Harry a frustrated look. He'd been out of touch with new Fleet technology for years. "Harry! What's she speaking about?"

"Oh!" Harry's face lit up with recognition, and just as the first group of wounded – a burned, battered bunch in engineering gold – stumbled through the permanently open doors, he shouted: "Computer, initiate Emergency Medical Holographic Program."

Something akin to a transporter beam tingled near to an empty examining table, and a balding man in Starfleet blue – and with an almost manic look on his face – appeared at Harry's side, as he tried to lift an unconscious engineer onto the bed. Tom left the nurse for a moment, running over to help the ensign.

"Please state the nature of the medical emergency," the hologram said in a slightly impatient tone, looking at the growing flood of patients with a frown.

"Multiple percussive injuries," Harry told him curtly. As if this were some sort of a trigger, the hologram flashed into action with a speed that could make one dizzy. Bending over the ugly-looking leg wound of an engineer, the EMH threw another question at Harry over its shoulder. 

"Status of your doctor?" In the same time it had already started treating the wound, quickly and efficiently. Tom and Harry looked at each other and shrugged. They couldn't really expect a hologram to come to the right conclusions on its own.

"He's dead," Harry finally answered. The answer didn't seem to phase the hologram a bit.

"Point four cc's of trianoline," it ordered promptly, and Harry shot a panicking look at Tom.

"Trianoline?" He had no idea what sort of drug that could be.

The doctor gave him a chilly look of disapproval, that made poor Harry cringe. Tom, used to the much more intimidating facial expressions of the Admiral, came to the rescue.

"We lost our nurse too," he explained. "At least temporarily."

The doctor blinked in a strange manner, then flashed to one of the scattered medical cabinets and selected a hypo, together with a canister of spray. "How soon are replacement medical personnel expected?"

"That could be a problem," Harry felt the beginning of dizziness as he tried to follow the inhumanly quick movements of the hologram. "We're pretty far away from replacements right now."

He was still speaking when the holodoctor had already finished cleaning and sealing the leg wound. Fortunately, the poor engineer remained unconscious during the whole procedure, which _was_ fast and thorough – however, gentle treatment was _not_ part of it.

The doctor was at another bed already and looked down at Stadi with interest. "Tricorder," he said, looking back, one hand thrust out expectantly. Harry grabbed his tricorder from Tom's hand and pressed it into the hologram's grasp – only to have it pushed back.

"_Medical_ tricorder!" Tom could hardly believe it, but the hologram actually rolled its eyes.

Harry looked around in confusion, but Tom had already found the requested device. The hologram didn't bother to thank him, of course. "Clean him up," he ordered, meaning the former patient, and Harry hurried to obey.

"Severe head trauma," the holodoctor murmured, checking Stadi's condition. "The spinal column is torn in the waist area. The eyes… hmmm…" It activated the diagnostic arc over the biobed, adding nonchalantly, "A replacement must be requested as soon as possible. I am programmed only as a short-term emergency supplement to the medical team."

Tom felt that irrational fury rise in his gut once more. He knew it was pointless to be mad at the hologram for being totally insensitive. But Stadi was in critical condition, and Mendon was dead, and the babies might be dying in his pouch already… and he was just in no mood to fight with a computer subroutine.

"Well, we may be stuck with you for a while, Doc," he replied, voice dripping with sarcasm. That earned him an irritated look from the hologram.

"There's no need for concern," it remarked. "I am capable of treating any injury or disease."

"Are you familiar with Benzite physiology, too?" Tom asked. The holodoctor rolled its eyes again.

"Of course I am! I'm not a mere human physician, you know. I've been designed with the information from 2,000 medical reference sources and the experience of 47 individual medical officers. I am the embodiment of modern medicine."

"In that case," Tom replied, equally irritated and totally fed up with its attitude, "you might want to take a look at Chief Mendon here. He's dead, but there are four babies in his pouch who might still be alive."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Carey selected Ensign Vorik to help him activate the core seal – as a Vulcan, the ensign had the strongest nerves and steadiest hand by default. The move caused a great crack of thunderous light, and the stench of ozone began to fill the engine room. Joe could see Bill Chapman's ghostly pale face less than a meter away; the young man was sweating profoundly.

"If the Warp core leaks now, we'll go off like a supernova," Chapman whispered.

"Tell me something I don't know," Joe replied through clenched teeth, not really trusting the whole idea himself. But the field's initial discharge settled into a deep, steady glow that looked like blue mist inside a crystal cylinder, and the engines began their usual slow, quiet thrumming again. Joe thought he'd never heard a tome more beautiful.

"Unlock the magnetic constrictors," the captain ordered, her relief as obvious as everyone else's. Joe nodded to Nicoletti, who punched in the command without losing a second.

"Constrictors on line," she reported, and power slowly returned to the ship's damaged systems.

"It's working," Joe murmured.

"Pressure?" Janeway asked, still not quite believing that they'd actually made it.

"2,500 kilopascals and holding," Sue Nicoletti looked up and gave them one of her brilliant smiles. "And holding."

There was a collective sigh of relief – except Vorik, of course – and they were about to go ahead with their work, when Janeway's comm badge beeped.

"Bridge to Janeway." Rollins' voice was composed as always, but Janeway had been his commanding officer long enough to notice the barely restrained panic in it. "We're being scanned by the array, Captain. It's penetrated our shields…"

Janeway whirled around. "What kind of scan?" There was no answer. Janeway glared into the blank air, waiting. "Bridge? Janeway to Bridge, respond."

Joe Carey was so focused on his captain that he didn't realize that something was wrong – until he felt the familiar tingle of a transporter beam catching him unawares. He realized half a second too late what was happening – before he could move away – the engine room around him became a blur of indefinable colours.

"Initiate emergency lock-off…," he heard the captain's voice, then everything faded and then was gone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

While Harry was busy cleaning up the engineer with the leg wound, the EMH sent Tom to handle a female crewmember with contusions, edema, and a local subdermal hematoma. The hologram then concentrated its efforts on the still living babies in the dead body of the Benzite male.

This was going to be a delicate process, especially with the Vulcan nurse still in a healing trance and thus unable to assist. The female Betazoid patient would require extensive operations, but for the moment her condition was stable The diagnostic subroutines clearly stated that the unborn babies had priority.

Fortunately, several incubator units had remained undamaged by whatever hit the ship recently. The EMH adjusted them to Benzite metabolism, then prepared the necessary tools for the task before it, a task that most doctors would have found grisly.

"No concussion. You'll be fine," the human who was said to be a field medic told the patient he was treating. Good. At least the easy cases were being handled smoothly.

The EMH cut the scorched uniform of the chief engineer open, revealing the characteristic pouch. It was swollen considerably, as it would be expected in someone only weeks away from giving birth, but the protective flap hadn't clapped up yet, clearly indicating that the babies weren't fully developed. It wasn't safe to deliver them, but there was no other choice. They couldn't survive in a dead body.

The holodoctor selected a laser scalpel and slowly, carefully cut through the still sealed flap. Then it used a clamp to widen the cut, so that the little ones could be pulled out; then gently, it reached into the pouch.

"You're not seriously hurt," Tom said to his female patient. "You can return to your station – just take it easy."

She nodded, thanked him and slid down from the biobed. Tom couldn't resist taking a look at the EMH – right in time to see it pulling the first baby free. The little fishhead looked remarkably like his (her?) father, but that was to be expected. Benzites of the same genome usually did. However, even a non-professional like Tom could see that the baby was not yet ready to be born. It still had a fish-like fluke attached to its small rear, and its arms and legs were still much too short and weak.

"Will it live, Doc?" he asked quietly. The hologram shot him another irritated look – that seemed to be an integral part of its programming.

"I'm a doctor, not a seer, crewman. Now if you'd watch the – patient, until I put the baby into the incubator…"

Without waiting for an answer, the EMH turned around to place the gaping little creature into its replacement womb where it had the right atmosphere to breathe. When the doctor returned to the patient, however, the human assistant was gone.

The EMH looked around, as confused as a hologram could be, and realized that most of the other high-level lifeforms were gone, too. Upon its query the computer confirmed that this wasn't a glitch in its visual subroutines, and that all patients had been beamed away from sickbay, with the exception of the Betazoid and the Vulcan female.

This was not acceptable – not to mention against regulations. So, asking the highest-ranking officer for further instructions was required. The subroutine responsible for such minor decisions opened the specific EMH-channel to the bridge and activated the vocalization subroutine.

"This is the Emergency Holographic Doctor speaking. I gave no permission for anyone to be transported out of Sickbay. By whose authority have my patients been removed?"

The EMH waited for four hundred thousand nanoseconds, but there was no answer from the bridge. So it tried again. "Hello? Sickbay to Bridge. Please respond."

Nothing.

The holodoctor waited for exactly the same length of time. Then the decision was made. Whatever happened to the rest of the crew, it still had three more Benzite babies to be delivered and put into the incubator, and two patients in serious though not life-threatening condition to treat. It was going to be complicated without help, but the EMH was programmed to handle emergency situations.

"Fortunately, they have forgotten to terminate my program," the doctor told the next little fishhead, pulling it free and giving the small, blue-grey back a careful slap to start the breathing, "otherwise I wouldn't be able to bring you little things into the world safely."

And the EMH kept talking to its unresponsive patients while it brought to the light of the world (well, at least to the artificial light of sickbay) the last two Benzite babies, sealed the wound of their dead father, checked on the condition of the Vulcan nurse, put the Betazoid patient into a stasis chamber until the necessary operations could be performed,  and instructed the computer to transport all dead crewmembers to the morgue.

After that, it seated itself in the doctor's office, activated the desk terminal to study the crew manifest – and waited.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Reference: 1st season TNG-episode "The Naked Now". The kid in question is, of course, Wesley Crusher. Chief MacDougal only appeared in that episode. A reason for her replacement with several different male engineers was never given.

(2) Reference: TNG-episode "The Wounded". I made Carey an old friend and colleague of Miles O'Brien. The names of his wife and kids are given by me, too.


	10. Interlude 2: Shared Fates

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Additional disclaimer:**

The Deltan names belong to the wonderful Margaret Wonder Bonanno and were borrowed from her TOS-novel "Pawns and Symbols". The characters themselves are mine, though.

Dr. Saduk, the Vulcan microcontamination expert belongs to John Vornholt and was borrowed from his TNG-novel, "Contamination". I had the character married to Dr. Selar in one of my early stories.

Thala, the Andorian adoptive daughter of Dr. Selar belongs to A.C. Crispin and was borrowed from her TNG-novel "The Eye of the Beholder".

The name and race of Kova Tholl was taken from the TNG-episode "Allegiance", but it's not the same character.

Lt. Cmdr. Hranok is the Bolian security officer from the DS9 pilot "Emissary". His name was given in the novelization only.

Kell Perim is the female Trill officer in the TNG movie "Insurrection". I thought she'd be more useful on another ship. :)

Simon Tarses was the main character in the TNG-episode "Drumhead". His family background is canon.

All other unknown characters belong to me. There will be quite a few of those later.

**Rating:** PG-13, for sexual context, both same-gender and het.

**Author's notes:** The amount of familiar names in this chapter in no coincidence. They are mostly borrowed from TNG, some from TNG novels. I wanted to give the other ship her own history and a detailed background, and with OCs only they would be of little interest for true Trek fans. Besides, they were interesting characters – a shame that the screenwriters never used them again.

I assumed that the other ship has been abducted to the Delta Quadrant several weeks earlier than _Voyager_ – this would put her crew battling the Krowtonan Guard about the time of the pilot.

The information that Saurians had four hearts is from "The Worlds of the Federation" by Shahne Johnson, a valuable background source.

INTERLUDE #2: SHARED FATES Chief Medical Officer's log 

_Stardate: 48212.7_

_Lt. Selar recording_

_Despite all efforts from the medical personnel, Lt. Cmdr. Vran't Naa K'T'L, chief engineer of the Equinox, died at 08.11 hours board time. The explosion in engineering, caused by a direct hit of a quantum torpedo, damaged two of his four hearts, and although we tried to grow cloned implants for him, they did not develop fully in time. Not even the extraordinary endurance of his reptilian species provided Lt. Cmdr. Vran't Naa K'T'L with sufficient strength to stay alive until the hearts could be implanted, and with his remaining hearts barely functioning, putting him into a stasis chamber was no solution, either. With his death, the number of casualties has reached thirty-nine since our first encounter with the Krowtonan Guard. He will be missed. Selar out._

The Chief Medical Officer of the _Equinox_, a tall, slender Vulcan woman with short-cropped, glossy black hair and a slightly upturned nose, switched off the medical log in Sickbay and leaned back in her seat. She was sorely tempted to sigh – a very un-Vulcan-like reaction, but she was considered a heretic anyway. Only the presence of her husband kept her from giving in – Saduk had to put up with enough disapproval from their fellow Vulcans for marrying a woman with utter disrespect for certain parts of tradition _and_ an adopted Andorian child. She would not bring even more dishonour upon him with inappropriate behaviour. It didn't matter that nobody but themselves would ever know. It was a matter of principle.

"So many dead," she said in a soft but collected voice. "And I can't guarantee that there won't be even more. Perhaps Captain Ransom should have considered circumventing their borders, after all."

"It would add another six years to our journey," Saduk reminded her soberly. "For the two of us, it would not be that much of a delay. But for the humans – and for most other species on board – very much so. Even with Warp 8, we need 150 standard years to reach the Alpha Quadrant as it is. That is a human lifetime and a half. You can't blame the captain for not wanting to make it even longer."

"What is better: travelling six years longer, with the whole crew safe and sound, or shortening our journey but sacrificing half of it?" Selar asked, struggling to keep her voice even. The severe loss of lives, caused by the impulsive decision of one human captain, shattered her calm more than she would believe… or admit.

"Captain Ransom had sufficient reason to doubt that the Guard would find us – or that they would cause such damage," Saduk pointed out, though the logic of his argument was somewhat shaky, and he knew that. So did Selar, for that matter.

"Had he?" she replied icily. "The _Equinox_ is a _Nova_-class science vessel, designed for short-term research. Neither deep space missions, nor battle situations were considered by her design. We have minimal weapons, nothing above basic shields, and we can't even travel faster than Warp 8. In a territory completely unknown for us, Captain Ransom _should_ have counted on the worst: That the inhabitants of this quadrant might have weapons far superior than Federation technology." She shook her head in barely controlled exasperation. "Quantum torpedoes! Even the _Enterprise_, under such an experienced captain as Jean-Luc Picard, would have a hard time against the Guard!"

Saduk watched the raging emotions of his wife with slight concern through their marriage bond. He knew, of course, that Selar was deeply troubled by the recent events – their abduction to the Delta Quadrant, the encounter with the highly aggressive, unreasonable representatives of the Krowtonan Guard and what she called Captain Ransom's irresponsible behaviour – and feared that his wife would mentally break under the pressure. It was always hard for a Vulcan to accept the loss of life, especially for a Vulcan _doctor_, dedicated to saving lives and unable to do so. And the chief engineer, whose long and barely pronounceable name everyone on board (except the Vulcans) shortened to "Vranok", had been a personal friend of theirs.

Like all Saurians, the chief engineer had been greatly interested in art, languages and music – interests that Vulcans generally shared. They had often sat together, discussing alien philosophies while listening to music and playing chess or _kal-toh_, both of which the Saurian had found fascinating.

Determined to bring his wife out of her brooding, Saduk rose.

"I believe thou hast done all thee could, wife mine," he said formally, signalling his intention to exercise his marital prerogatives. "I ask thee to return to our quarters with me. We shall meditate together, to reinstate thy inner balance."

Selar hesitated for a moment – she seldom reacted positively when Saduk adopted an authoritive tone – but she realized that this time her husband was right. Reluctantly, she stood, accepted the comforting two-fingered touch of Saduk, and they left Sickbay in the charge of the only surviving med. tech.

The person in question – a young, round-faced man with thick brown hair and ever-so-slightly pointed ears – waited for the sickbay doors to close before transferring the latest casualty to the morgue. There were so many of them, and a proper burial was not even possible. Not before they left Krowtonan territory far behind them. And even then, the most they could hope was to find some uninhabited planetoid and lay them to rest in foreign soil. They didn't have torpedo caskets to spare for a burial in space.

For his part, Ensign Simon Tarses was no friend of that particular Starfleet custom anyway. Leaving the bodies behind in empty space where anyone could find and desecrate them – it seemed so… barbaric in his eyes. He preferred the traditions the people of his maternal grandfather followed: cremation and the keeping of the ashes in the family shrine. Sometimes he wondered what being a Romulan might be like. If he could actually live and think like the _Rihannsu_, as they called themselves, should the need arise.

He didn't think so. Living on Romulus – _ch'Rihan_, he reminded himself – demanded a level of shrewd and ruthless thinking that he did _not_ possess. Nor had his own grandfather, which had been sufficient reason for the old Romulan to go into exile.

He sighed, cleaning the biobed with distracted efficiency. Every time since the drumhead led by Admiral Satie (which had revealed his true ancestry), Tarses had had difficulties blending in with any crew he was serving with. It had been bad enough on the _Enterprise_, where everyone knew the whole thing in embarrassing detail already – though, to their credit, nobody ever addressed him about the big lie of his life. Still, he had lived in constant shame and asked for a repost as soon as possible – only to end up on the _Equinox_ (after some short-lived assignments on different Starbases), where a good part of the crew had formerly served on the _Enterprise_, too. Fate – or the elements, as his Romulan grandfather preferred to say – had a twisted sense of humour, that much was sure.

And now he was trapped with these people for the rest of his life. The worst joke of all was that – aside from the Vulcan crewmembers – he was the only one with an actual chance to get home alive, due to his Romulan genes.

Life could hardly be more strange.

The sickbay doors swooshed open to allow three more persons to enter. One of them was the _Equinox_' first officer, a solidly-built, dark-skinned, usually good-natured human from Cestus III named William Yates, generally called "Bill" by the whole crew. He was followed by Lt. Cmdr. Hranok, the Bolian chief of security – a veteran of Wolf 359, one of the very few survivors who had made it off the _Saratoga_. Hranok was supporting a young woman in the gold uniform of the engineering crew, whom Tarses recognized as lieutenant j.g. Sonia Gomez. Her arm hung in a strange angle and her face and her hand were bleeding.

"Another console exploded down there," Hranok explained to Tarses' look. "Where is Dr. Selar?"

"In her quarters," Tarses didn't intend to offer any details of what he had accidentally overheard from a private conversation. Vulcans tended to forget that his ears were almost as good as theirs – plus that he spoke Vulcan. "I am fully capable of tending Lt. Gomez' injuries, sir."

Fortunately, Hranok didn't dig any deeper. After having faced a Borgified Captain Picard at Wolf 359, the Bolian probably knew the deep shock that came with the aftermath of battle all too well.

"She's all yours," was all he said, helping Gomez onto the biobed and moving out of the way.

"Status report, Ensign?" Bill Yates asked, while Tarses was scanning the engineer's injuries.

"Lt. Cmdr. Vran't Noa K'T'L is deceased, sir." Like the Vulcans, Tarses was actually able to pronounce the Saurian's name; being fluent in common Vulcan and in a lower _Rihan_ dialect came in handy. "Thirty-nine casualties, so far. No wounded in critical care at the moment."

The XO sat on the edge of an empty biobed, broad shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Half the crew… gods, poor Rudy will never recover from this. How are we supposed to fly the ship with only forty pair of hands?"

"We miscalculated the risks," the Bolian answered with a shrug. "Mistakes like that happen. The consequences are tragic, yes, but we can't sit and whine about that now. Our utmost priority now is to protect the lives that are _not_ lost."

"I hope you have some useful suggestions," Yates said, "because the captain called a meeting for all senior officers at 1100, and he will need them."

"We'll see," replied Hranok, unperturbed; then he nodded to Tarses. "You seem to have everything under control here, Ensign. I'll leave Lt. Gomez in your capable hands. Time for another security check."

"What about internal communications?" Yates asked.

"Still down," Gomez answered in Hranok's stead. "Taurik and Gilmore were working on it when I was injured. It shouldn't be long…"

"So I hope," Yates murmured. "Now that Vranok is dead, who's next in line to become chief engineer?"

"I am the senior officer," Gomez said, making a face as Tarses fused the bones in her forearm, "but Lt. Crusher has better qualifications."

Yates and Hranok looked at each other and groaned almost simultaneously. Of all the arrogant, belligerent, self-absorbed young titans the Academy sometimes produced, they _had_ to get Wesley Crusher, the personal pet of Captain Picard. And, of course, he was among the survivors, while much better people had to die – like Vranok.

"I still want you on that staff meeting, Lieutenant," the first officer said to Gomez. "We need a voice of reason when engineering questions are considered."

"Aye, sir," Gomez said to the retreating back of the XO. She was _not_ looking forward to facing Starfleet's errant golden boy, who admittedly considered his post aboard the _Equinox_ as a serious throwback in his career. Unfortunately for him, it seemed to have become a _permanent_ throwback, as things were.

"Just a minute," Tarses kept her from standing up. "I've got some unusual readings here. Let me take a look at… uh-huh…"

Sonia Gomez felt the well-known panic she always had by unexpected events rising in her stomach again. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Tarses replied, checking his readouts. "Not exactly wrong, that is… perhaps a little bad timing… oh, yes, I was right. Lieutenant, I think congratulations are in order, regardless of the circumstances. You are pregnant."

That was the exact moment when – for the first time in her entire life – Sonia Gomez fainted.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Being a science ship, the _Equinox_ – unlike other vessels of similar size – was equipped with a rather spacious conference room. It had a long, irregularly-shaped table in the middle, with built-in computer terminals that created a holographic image of all required pictures, maps or readouts directly in mid-air, so that they could be watched from all angles. Or they could transfer the same to one of the huge viewscreens lining the walls, whatever the participants of any particular meeting preferred.

Presently, the crowd gathered around the long table was a rather moderate one, as only half of the senior staff had survived the latest clash with the Krowtonan Guard: Bill Yates, Hranok and Dr. Selar. Captain Ransom, a man in his early forties with a leathery, yet handsome face, sat slumped in his chair, his eyes practically dead. There was no need for a telepath to confirm that the loss of his crew had broken something deep in him, so deep that no healing would ever be able to reach that bleeding place.

His second officer, Lt. Maxwell Burke, sat on his left. Well, the _Equinox_ didn't officially have a second officer, but Burke was the only one other than Yates who actually had gone to command school (even though only post-graduate), and after finding themselves in the Delta Quadrant, Captain Ransom had given the ambitious young operations officer a field promotion. Just in case one – or both – of the commanding officers should die. The structure of command had to be kept intact.

The surviving leaders of the different science labs had all been invited. Saduk had come from Microcontamination, Jayvin Hajan, a joined Trill from Stellar Cartography, Jali'lar Kandowali, a beautiful, bald Deltan woman from Quantum Mechanics (where she worked with two other Deltans, the male members of her marriage group, and a Betazoid woman who alone could deal with their raging pheromones and sensuality), and a small man, distinguished by a strangely grey, wrinkled complexion: Kova Tholl, a geologist from Mizar II.

Engineering was represented – besides a visibly shaken Sonia Gomez – by a lanky young junior-lieutenant, who wore a permanently insulted expression on his pasty face, making it even less pleasant than it already was: Wesley Crusher, once acting ensign and helm officer of the _Enterprise_ and biggest promise of Starfleet, now fallen from grace through youthful arrogance and irresponsible behaviour. The ops and helm officers Dorothy Chang and Edward Regis – usually from Gamma shift, but now promoted by need since they were the ones with the most duty years under their belts – completed the gathering.

"Thank you for coming on such a short notice," Ransom began in a tired voice. "We need to regroup and make new plans after the heavy casualties we have taken. I'm open for suggestions, people."

The casual tone didn't surprise anyone. Captain Ransom had always run the ship like a science institute, and though Starfleet regulations _were_ respected, nobody cared much for formalities. Aside of the Vulcans, of course, but that was a different matter. Stiffness was part of the Vulcan nature.

"The casualties," Kova Tholl began in that lecturing tone he always used – and that made him extremely unpopular on the whole ship – "would have been less severe, or prevented entirely, had we heeded the warnings and circumvented the borders of the Krowtonan Guard as I have suggested."

"Not everyone shares the cowardice of the Mizarans, Dr. Toll," Max Burke spat, in defence of his captain and friend.

"What Dr. Toll says has its merits," Selar interfered calmly. "I chose not to take part in that argument because due to the Vulcan longevity six more years would not mean the same for me as they mean to other crewmembers. But I happen to agree with Dr. Toll as well as with the Mizaran philosophy that values peace over confrontation."

"Which got them conquered six times in a period of three hundred years," Burke commented acidly.

"True," the Mizaran nodded, "and we also survived every time by offering no resistance, while all our erstwhile conquerors have perished or fallen back to pre-industrial barbarism and poverty."

"That might work on the long run," the Trill said, "but we need to find a way home in our lifetime, if possible. I still support the captain's original decision, even though we all miscalculated the risks. We must look forward now. How long till we leave Krowtonan territory?"

"Theoretically, we should have left it behind already," Dorrie Chang answered. "But the damage in Engineering has slowed us down. Our current top speed is Warp 6.729. That gives us at least one more day in the Krowtonan Girdle."

She was referring to the part of space they were currently crossing – a particularly narrow part of marked territory near the midsection of the Krowtonan Empire. The other side of it, where they were heading, was empty space without as much as a single star, as far as their sensors could see – which was not very far at the moment. Based on that fact, they could reasonably hope that the Guard wouldn't pursue them into dead space.

How _they_ would be able to cross it was another matter entirely, of course.

"We have no other choice than to go on," Hranok said. "Turning back is not an option anymore, and we can't slow down to make repairs, either."

"Agreed," Yates nodded. "Captain, as soon as we have replaced the department heads, we'll have to start working on a tactical plan. We need to create better means to defend ourselves. The Krowtonan Guard may not be the only hostile species in this quadrant."

Ransom looked at him with those dead eyes tiredly. "I am just a scientist, Bill. I'm not trained for _that_."

"Nor is it your job, sir," Yates replied. "Commander Hranok used to be the tactical officer of the _Saratoga_, he's used to that way of thinking. And I know one or two tricks myself."

"You?" the Trill looked at him in surprise. Yates grinned like a shark.

"My father was a freighter captain, and I practically grew up on his ship. Since I went to the academy, my sister has taken over for him. She operates in the Bajoran system and the DMZ. I did a few runs with her, too. You'll be surprised what an innovative mind can do with the most basic tools and materials. But sir," he turned to Ransom again. "Before we start, we need to complete the senior staff. The crew needs structure, now more than ever."

Ransom nodded, with the barest of interest in his haunted eyes. "Suggestions?"

Yates, having thought it through already, pulled out a PADD. "Aye, Captain. First, I suggest to make the promotion of Ensign Chang as chief of ops and Ensign Regis as chief helmsman permanent. For the Beta shift I suggest Ensign T'Shanik for ops and Ensign Xing for the helm. For the gamma shift we should try crewmen Crone and Thompson. They both have _some_ experience, and given enough time they would make excellent officers. Both Lieutenant Burke and myself can help out if necessary, but I feel that it's important we have a steady bridge crew for all three shifts."

Ransom looked at Burke. "What do you think, Max?"

"I agree," the second officer replied, "with the addition that we should select other people to make them familiar with the bridge systems… just in case."

The last comment lingered heavily in the air. Then Lt. Crusher shifted in his seat.

"I am an experienced pilot," he pointed out, clearly insulted that nobody else had thought of that. "I can take over the helm," he added, in an ill-disguised effort to hide his desire to become a senior officer. But Burke dismissed his offer with an impatient wave of his hand.

"You've flown a big, honking _Galaxy_-class starship in top shape, Lieutenant. This is a little different. Besides, we need you in Engineering. Anything else would be a waste of your talents. You're said to be an engineering genius – now is your chance to prove it."

"Lieutenant Gomez is the senior officer in Engineering, Max," Yates reminded him, surprised that Burke would favour Crusher so openly; the two weren't exactly the best friends, to put it mildly. Burke rolled those liquid dark eyes of his that had earned him the title of the ship's resident Don Juan.

"Bill, we are 70,000 light years from petty regulations. I know that Sonia is next in line, and under normal circumstances I'd be the first to support her promotion. But Lt. Crusher has better qualifications… and, according the records, an extraordinary talent for engineering. We'll need that talent out here."

"I realize that," Yates replied. "But I also think that Lt. Crusher can just as well use his talent to our benefit _without_ being burdened with the responsibility for the whole engineering department – if not better."

Before Burke could launch another argument, Gomez raised a hand. "Sirs, may I have a word in this matter?"

Ransom nodded. "By all means, Lieutenant. Speak your mind."

"Thank you, captain. Sirs, I think I can solve your dilemma easily. It's better if you make Lt. Crusher chief engineer, as I couldn't keep that post very long anyway."

"Why not?" Yates asked with a frown. Gomez smiled.

"Ensign Tarses' examination has just shown that I'm pregnant. I'd have to hand over Engineering in about six months anyway, as I won't be able to crawl around in the Jefferies tubes by then. And if you give Lt. Crusher a field promotion to full lieutenant, the rank problem would be solved, too."

"Yes, it would," Yates agreed reluctantly. He really, honestly didn't want to make Crusher a senior officer, but it seemed that he had no way out of it. "What do you think, Captain? In the end, it's up to you."

"We don't have much of a choice, do we?" Ransom said with a shrug, hoping that Crusher would turn out as talented as Burke had said; then he turned to Gomez, this time with a little more life in his eyes. "Your first, Lieutenant?"

Gomez shook her head, smiling. "I already have a pair of four-year-olds back home. My… partner has a planetary assignment for the next five years, so he offered to care for them during this mission." Her smile faded. "I guess he's in for a lifetime job."

"We'll have to do something about the children," Selar intervened smoothly before the mood could get any more depressed. "From the seven children we had aboard, only two have survived. Thala and Ensign Baila's daughter, Yboia. They will need a proper education; so will the others who shall be born during our journey. There are highly qualified people on this ship – making up a curriculum should not be too hard."

"You sound like someone who plans to have a 150-year-trek home," Burke said challengingly. Selar nodded.

"I do. And so should you, Lieutenant. Because that is exactly what we all are going to have, unless we find a wormhole or some other extraordinary means to shorten our journey."

"It still can happen, you know," Hranok said. "Ben Sisko didn't expect to find the Bajoran wormhole, either. Yet he did."

"True," Selar admitted, "but as a Vulcan, I prefer to work with facts. I leave the hope for a miracle to the humans."

That killed the discussion efficiently, and after coming to an agreement about replacing some other department heads, Ransom dismissed the meeting. The officers filed out slowly, leaving their captain alone with his second officer.

Burke stepped behind the captain's chair and began kneading the knotted neck and shoulder muscles gently but firmly.

"Let go, Rudy," he murmured. "You can't stand at alert all the time. Relax, before you break. You're not alone. We've lost half our people, yes, and it's terrible, but at least we still have each other. I guess we've been lucky, after all… even if it makes me feel guilty for those who have not."

"Max, we've agreed that this was… inappropriate, as long as you serve under my command," Ransom reminded him, but he leaned his head back against the younger man's stomach involuntarily, his eyes closed.

"That was back in the Alpha Quadrant – 150 years away from here," Burke pointed out reasonably. "What do fraternization rules count out here? You know as well as I do that Selar's right: we'll most likely spend our whole life on the way home, unless some miracle happens. Are you willing to give up what we had – what we still could have – for the vague hope in that miracle? There will be no extended leaves between temporary missions for us to catch up with our life together. This is one big, goddamn mission of a lifetime. And I'm not going to spend that lifetime alone when I can share it with you."

"But the crew," Ransom protested weakly, yearning for the comforting touch of his friend… his lover. "They'll find out…"

"What if they do?" Burke shrugged. "Assuming they haven't found out already, they'll understand. They all like you, Rudy, and they'll be happy for you. Happy to know that you're not alone with your burden. And after some time, they'll start pairing up, too. What else could they do? Not everybody was so lucky as Selar and Saduk – or the Deltans. Life will go on, eventually. The question is: do you still want _me_ in _your_ life?"

Ransom rose from his seat tiredly, but now his eyes were warm. He pulled the younger man closer and pressed a long, lingering kiss on those soft lips.

"I never wanted anything else, Max," he replied, his voice nearly breaking.

Burke nodded, the ghost of a smile appearing on his pale face. "Then you'll have me, as long as this accursed quadrant allows. Let's go."

"Where?"

"My quarters are a mess. The ceiling collapsed during the latest clash with the Guard. That leaves yours."

"Max, we can't. I'm needed on the bridge."

"No, you're not. It's Bill's shift, and he's more than capable of handling whatever the Delta might throw at us. Let him do his job. You need rest."

"Somehow I don't think that rest is what you have on your mind," Ransom murmured, but he followed Burke to the turbolift nevertheless.

"In a way it is," Burke answered soberly. "I'll make you forget – for a while."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hours later, in the comforting darkness of his quarters, Rudy Ransom admitted to himself that Max had been right. After all those weeks of forced celibacy, it was utterly relaxing to rest in the warm embrace of his lover again, even though they both were sore from their rather passionate recent activities. Feeling the warm body of Max spooned up against his back felt like home, even here in this damned Delta Quadrant. As long as he had _this_, he could keep going.

"It was about time that they came to their senses," the Deltan woman commented, two doors further down the corridor. Her partners – one as bald as herself, the other, from a different subspecies, wearing a great, lion-like white mane – laughed softly.

"Humans are so complicated," Resh'da said with a shrug. "You should have activated your pheromones a lot earlier, sister-love." Aside from being married, they also were second-grade cousins. Deltans had no taboos in this area – or any other area, when sex was considered.

"They were ready before," Jali'lar shrugged. "Too many regulations… too many concerns. But they are ready now – and their love will help the captain to carry his burden. Nobody should be alone. Especially not out here.

TBC

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End note:** Further – and earlier – adventures of the _Equinox_ will be told in a series called "The Equinox Logs". The Romulan expressions were created in Diane Duane's TOS-novels. I use them in all my stories because they are much better, more coherent and convincing than anything the screenwriters ever came up with.


	11. Chapter 9: Strange Bedfellows

The Lost Voyages

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

CARETAKER 

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.

**Author's notes:** I've skipped the silly farm scene from the pilot, as I haven't made up my mind about alternate possibilities yet. The main storyline continues after the two crews have been returned to their respective ships.

My heartflet thanks to Brigid for beta reading.

CHAPTER NINE: STRANGE BEDFELLOWS 

He jerked awake as from a nightmare. A nightmare about an endless room, clean and antiseptic and surreal in its impersonal, blue-white light. A room with slabs in neat, even rows along both walls, like examining tables in an enormous morgue after some unknown disease wiped out the population of a whole village. Slabs with a naked body on each – humans, Vulcans, Bajorans, Bolians, a Klingon – his very own crew, unconscious and unresisting, with wires and probes coming from the metallic ceiling and piercing their bodies in a dozen or more places. And somewhere behind him young Gerron was screaming again like a frightened animal.

Chakotay came awake, with Gerron's scream still in his ear, on the damaged bridge of the _Crazy Horse_. His head throbbed, but otherwise he felt all right… more or less. Climbing to his feet, he looked around and could see Suvuk, Hogan and Seska lying on the deck, among the debris, but not Torres. Oh, right. B'Elanna had gone down to Engineering. And Hogan had just repaired the intercom before they were abducted.

He staggered back to his seat and fell into it heavily. _Spirits, my head is killing me!_ With a somewhat clumsy move, he switched on the system praying that it still worked. "Chakotay to Ayala. You still here, Greg?"

"Sure thing, Chak," the deep, rough voice of his second-in-command answered almost immediately, and Chakotay let out a relieved sigh. Once again, his childhood friend proved as reliable as an antigrav-unit and almost as indestructible.

"Are all accounted for?" he asked.

"Don't know yet," Ayala replied. "I'm about to check it out."

"Come up to the bridge, it will be easier from here now that the comm system is working."

"You got it, Cap. Ayala out."

The others were stirring, too. Suvuk had already returned to his sensors but Seska sat holding her head with both hands, obviously suffering from a headache as well. Hogan remained lying on the floor, eyes tightly shut, groaning with pain.

"Suvuk, can you tell me where we are?" Chakotay asked, trying to ignore the suffering of the young engineer. At the moment there was nothing he could do to help Hogan. Sooner or later Sito will arrive, but in the meantime he had to deal with more urgent matters.

The Vulcan consulted his instruments – the few that were still working, that is.

"Affirmative, captain. According to my readings, we are still at the same coordinates as before our… abduction: orbiting the lower section of the Array."

That was less than stellar news, but Chakotay was used to it by now.

"And how long were we down… wherever we were?" he asked.

Suvuk checked the ship's inner chronometer. "Approximately three days, eighteen hours, fifty-four minutes, Captain."

"Four days!" That was unexpected, but not entirely surprising. If he had not dreamed the whole thing, the entity that had snatched them must have performed a thorough physical examination on each and every crewmember – if not worse. On the other hand… "I assume this was a long enough time for our computer to process the astrometric data?"

"Indeed, Captain," replied Suvuk, giving the readouts a cursory glance. "We are able to confirm our current position now."

"Glad to hear it," Chakotay fought his impatience. Former experiences had taught him that it was no use in dealing with Vulcans. "Well, would you mind telling me where the hell we are?"

"_Hell_, though somewhat exaggerated, may seem the appropriate definition, at least for human crewmen," the Vulcan answered, one eyebrow climbing slowly up to the roots of his hair. "Unless the computer is damaged and has made a grave error, we are 70,000 light years from the Badlands. In the Delta Quadrant."

Chakotay needed a full minute to absorb this particular piece of information.

"How could a displacement wave – _any_ displacement wave – hurl us across the Galaxy?" he finally asked.

"It cannot," came the calm answer of the Vulcan. "Not the ones _I know_ of, at least. I assume we are dealing with alien technology here, Captain. A technology that is far superior to ours."

"You got it dead on, Suvuk," Ayala, arriving just in time to hear the big news, could always appreciate the infallible Vulcan talent of stating the obvious. Actually, he found it comforting. "It seems the fight against the Cardies is pretty much over for us, huh, Cap?"

"I wouldn't be so sure," Chakotay said. "That Array has brought us here, obviously. For whatever reason, it let us go again – I think it can get us back home, too."

Ayala rolled his eyes. "Try to be realistic here, Chakotay. Whoever it was that brought us here, they apparently didn't care for our wishes a bit. Do you really think they will waste their time and energy to get us home?"

"I don't know," Chakotay sighed. "But I _do_ know that we can't get home on our own. So, unless we want to spend our lives in the Delta Quadrant, our best chance is to try talking the entity into helping us."

"Well, good luck!" Ayala's sarcastic tone left no doubt about how much hope he had in _that_.

"We are all the makers of our own luck," Chakotay quoted the old saying. "But first we must do some repairs. Even if we could persuade the entity to send us back, the ship wouldn't survive another transfer in her current state."

"That might be a problem," Ayala said dryly. "I've just spoken with Tabor on my way here, and it seems that B'Elanna has not shown up yet."

Chakotay paled. Aside of the fact that they had no chance to keep the ship together without Torres' instinctive talents, the fierce half-Klingon was his friend, and he was not willing to leave her behind.

"Anyone else missing?" he asked.

"No reports yet," Ayala accessed the com system from another station. "I'm still checking."

Chakotay nodded and turned to Seska, who was standing at the sensors again. "Any sign of the runabout?"

"None," the Bajoran replied with a frown. "But we seem to have another problem here – a big one."

She switched the image to the big screen, and they all watched with sinking hearts the sleek, predatory-looking white ship of unmistakable Starfleet design floating peacefully at a higher section of the Array.

"There were rumours all over DS9 about Starfleet commissioning a new _Intrepid_-class ship," Ayala commented softly. "With bioneural circuitry to maneuver through plasma storms…"

"To hunt us down for the Cardies," Hogan added with a scowl. "Captain, that ship has come for us!"

"No doubt," Chakotay nodded. "But how did they get to the Delta Quadrant?"

"Presumably the same way we did," Suvuk said.

Chakotay nodded again. That made sense. If the Fleet ship was looking for them already while the entity was fishing for new victims, it could easily have been caught in the net.

"Lifesigns?" he asked. Seska shook her head.

"None so far. The crew is probably still being examined down there." She looked up with a gleam in her eyes. "Chakotay, that ship is empty right now. We could simply beam over and take it!"

"We could, if our transporter was in working order," Suvuk replied. "Or if we had shuttlepods to ferry over at least a skeleton crew. _Or_ if our thrusters were reliable enough to maneuver us into their docking bay, without ramming the ship by accident."

Chakotay gritted his teeth in frustration. No, he didn't really believe that they could take over the Starfleet ship with the small crew of the _Crazy Horse_, not when the Starfleet crew could be returned at any moment. He had been a Starfleet officer, he knew the efficiency of that organization all too well. But the thought of bringing his people a new ship that was not about to fall apart under their feet was tempting nevertheless.

"Our best hope is to find Torres and get away from here before the Starfleet-crew returns," he said. So, repairs are our highest priority. Hogan, go down to Engineering and help the others get our Warp-drive online. We'll make the smaller repairs up here ourselves."

Hogan nodded and left in a great hurry. Chakotay looked at Seska.

"Scan the Array. Try to find Torres. And keep that Starfleet ship under constant surveillance. At the moment her crew returns, we need to get out of here, even if we have to get off and push the _Crazy Horse_."

"Sure," the Bajoran replied, switching on a few more instruments that miraculously still worked.

"Suvuk, Ayala," Chakotay pulled out the EETK(1) from under his console, "help me with the repairs! Time's running out."

They worked furiously and in almost complete silence for some six hours after that. Fortunately, the damage to the bridge systems was less serious than originally thought – now that nobody was shooting at them or otherwise trying to kill them all, they could concentrate on their work, and one by one, the stations came back to life… well, most of them. One wall of consoles remained dead – burned as black as space, beyond any hope of repairs. But they could do without them, for a while, and Torres was capable of rebuilding them from the scratch if necessary, given enough time and the right resources.

Time they were going to have aplenty, if they couldn't make the entity send them home. Finding Torres, however, was a different issue. Their sensors still couldn't penetrate the array, nor could they find any M-class planets in reach. Not to mention the runabout that was still nowhere to be found. _If_ it made it to the Delta Quadrant at all, that is.

"Chakotay," Seska said urgently, "I can read lifesigns on the Starfleet ship – more than a hundred. It seems the crew has returned."

"Damn!" Chakotay hit the intercom. "Engineering, give me everything we have. Power up the engines, we have to put that Array between us and the Fleet ship!"

"Sixty percent impulse is all I can give you, Cap," the voice of Tabor answered. Chakotay activated the manual controls of his pilot console.

"I'll take it." He keyed in a series of short sequences and the _Crazy Horse_ began to move away, slowly but steadily – only to come to a dead stop at once. "What the hell…"

"They've tractored us," Ayala reported grimly. Chakotay bit back another curse. He knew they couldn't break the tractor beam of the bigger, much more powerful Starfleet ship. _Damn them anyway, for making their first priority the capture of fellow human beings trapped here, in the Delta Quadrant!_

"Do we have phasers?" he asked. Suvuk gave him the Vulcan eyebrow.

"On minimal power."

"It'll have to be enough. Aim at their tractor emitters."

"That could knock out our impulse engines again," came Hogan's voice through the still open comm channel.

"Impulse engines won't help us very much if we are tractored in and thrown into their brig," Chakotay replied, turning to Suvuk in fury. "Reroute all power to the phasers and take out their tractor emitters, _now_!"

For a moment, the Vulcan seemed to hesitate (which was a very strange reaction, especially coming from him), then he carried out his orders with his usual efficiency.

"We are free," Ayala reported.

"Raise shields," Chakotay ordered, not wanting to be beamed out of his own ship, and rerouting all available power to the thrusters (since impulse engines _had_ been knocked down, just as Hogan had foreseen) he made a very risky move – he directed the _Crazy Horse_ right to the narrow opening between the two nearest "sails" of the Array. Theoretically, they would be protected by the Array's own, unique forcefield there, and if they were lucky, the Starfleet ship would be unable to penetrate that forcefield. Nor could it follow them in there.

"Chak," Ayala shook his head in admiration, "sometimes I think you are truly insane."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tom came to in sickbay, where he had been before being snatched away by… well, whatever it had been that snatched them away. Looking around he could see several previously injured, but now apparently hale crewmembers, staggering to their feet. The dead bodies were gone from the examination tables, and at the opposite wall four incubator units were humming quietly, a tiny, blue-grey fishhead, attached to life support tubes, squirming in each one.

"How friendly of you to return… all of you!" the sarcastic voice of the EMH greeted him. "Although it was probably not necessary to do so at the same moment. We are crowded enough here as it is, without healthy people taking up valuable space."

"Believe me, Doc, we had no choice in this one," Tom stood slowly, not entirely sure his feet would hold him. Surprisingly, they did. "How long were we… away?"

"Three days," the EMH replied, "in which time I had to sit down and study the crew manifest and the medical database, as nobody cared to turn off my program."

"Three days?" Tom repeated, alarmed. "What about Stadi? And your nurse?"

"Nurse T'Prena is in healing trance, from which she will awake shortly," the hologram answered. "As soon as she is able to return to duty, I will operate on Lieutenant Stadi. Her condition is serious, but not beyond help, and it will not deteriorate during a few more days in the stasis unit."

Tom nodded absently, trying to find the source of his uneasy feeling. Something was definitely wrong, but he could not determine what.

"Could you explain what has transpired?" the EMH asked. Tom shook his head.

"Not really. It seems that an alien, a technically very advanced one, has abducted us to that Array out there. I have vague memories of an enormous medical lab, with very unpleasant instruments poking and probing me in the most… private parts of my body, but that's all. I have no idea were we have been and why."

The hologram frowned, ethical subroutines kicking in full gear. "Were these examinations painful? Did the alien perform experiments on you?"

Tom shrugged. "I don't know. I can't remember having felt any pain, although I heard Harry scream… "he trailed off, realizing what had been bothering him all the time. "Harry, where is Harry?"

He could not seen Harry anywhere in Sickbay, and the kid _should_ have been in Sickbay, since the crew seemed to have been returned to the exact location they had been taken from. Tom turned to the nearest computer grid. "Computer, locate Ensign Kim."

"Ensign Kim is not on board of _Voyager_," the goddamn machine answered, without even bothering to search first. Tom felt real panic rising from the pit of his stomach. This was not good, not good at all!

He tapped his comm badge. "Paris to Captain Janeway."

"Go ahead," a voice, as cold as the computer's, answered. _Oh, to hell with her!_

"Kim didn't come back with us," Tom reported. "He must still be over there."

"Acknowledged," the impersonal voice said. "Computer, how many crewmen are unaccounted for?"

"One," Tom didn't even wait for the computer to elaborate; it's answer already reached him at the Sickbay doors. "Ensign Harry Kim."

"Hail the Maquis," Janeway ordered.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Cap," Ayala, now having communication full under control, looked up from his work station, "it seems your little stunt has made the Fleeters nice and mad enough to talk to us vermin. They're hailing us."

"Are they now," Chakotay felt amused, despite their fairly hopeless situation. "Be a gentleman then, and put them through."

A clearly irritated woman in a red Starfleet uniform and Captain's pips on her collar appeared on the viewscreen. One of those genderless, all-career types that sometimes made life in Starfleet a real pain. Especially when they were in a higher position. Like Admiral Nechayev, to name one.

"Commander Chakotay," she said in a voice that grated on his nerves like a fingernail scratching the window plane. "My name is Captain Kathryn Janeway."

Chakotay's eyes narrowed. Kathryn Janeway. The perfect little girl of Admiral Edward Janeway. The perfect little aide to Admiral Owen Paris and the other brass who had sold dozens of Federation colonies to Cardassia. Of course he had heard of her – in more than twenty years of duty, it was inevitable, even though they had never actually met. Until now. And this was a meeting Chakotay could have lived without.

"How do you know my name?" he asked, though the answer was obvious. With that sneaky little ship of hers, capable of maneuvering through plasma storms, they could have had only one purpose in the Badlands: to hunt down the Maquis. And being a former Starfleet officer, Chakotay knew he stood fairly high on their wanted list. Starfleet never took it kindly when someone dared to disagree with their politics.

"We were on a mission to find you when we were brought here by the Array," Janeway told him in the imperial manner of a born Starfleet brat.

"To _find_ us," Chakotay repeated silkily. "Do you think that would be all it takes? To find us? We may be outnumbered and outgunned compared with your ship, Captain, but we are resourceful. People like you have forced us to learn how to fight against impossible odds. People who have sold us to the enemy."

At first is seemed that she would snap at him, but she restrained herself fairly quickly. _She is no fool_, Chakotay realized,_ I'll have to be careful. Edward Janeway was a skilled and ruthless diplomat – she might have inherited these skills._

"Easy, Commander," she said soothingly. "I'm not your enemy."

"Maybe not at the moment," he replied, not buying the buddy number for a second. "And, by the way, in these days I am called _Captain_. I may not be Starfleet anymore, but I do command my own ship. You'll show me the same respect I'm willing to show you, or this discussion is closed."

_That_ brought forth a reaction – as if he had slapped her in front of her whole crew.. which, in a sense, he had. But, to her credit, she swallowed it, knowing that according to the law he was right. He had left Starfleet in the regular way, was no deserter, and even though the Federation was not on good terms with the Maquis at the moment, a spaceship captain was a spaceship captain.

"My apologies… _Captain_," she said, with an emphasis on his rank that was worth an insult. "But the fact is, I'm not after you this time. One of our crewman is missing, and I'd like to know if he was transported back to your ship by accident."

Chakotay looked at Ayala, who shook his head slowly. "No. But this does show a certain pattern, doesn't it, Cap?"

"Yeah, it does," Chakotay turned back to the viewscreen, to the impatiently waiting woman. "A member of our crew is missing too," he didn't find it necessary to tell her which one. "It seems the entity who controls the Array has more in its mind than just scientific investigation."

"It also seems that you and I have the same problem," Janeway answered. "I think it makes sense to try and solve it together, don't you?"

Chakotay snorted. "Now what reason should I have to trust you any further than I could throw your ship with bare hands?" he asked sarcastically. "Are you not the person who was sent out to hunt me down? Hasn't your very ship been built to terrier us out of our last hiding place? No, Captain Janeway. I'll never trust anyone in a Starfleet uniform anymore – or any ship that wears a Starfleet signature."

"Chakotay, the DMZ is thousands of light years away," Janeway told him, her frustration clearly getting the upper hand. "I don't think that what's back there means much right now, right here, do you?"

"It still means everything to me," Chakotay replied sharply. What was the woman thinking that he was, a complete fool? "And so to you, if you ask yourself honestly. The necessary compromises of the moment won't change _my_ principles any more than they change yours. But," he added rather unexpectedly for his own people, "synchronizing our rescue efforts might prove useful. Stand by to beam three of us over to your ship."

He cut the transmission before she could answer and raised a hand to stop his own crew from protesting.

"Please, don't. I know it's a risk. But we need to find B'Elanna, and their sensors are doubtlessly ten times better than ours. Not to mention that we couldn't tell them that our transporter is not working… and I don't want anyone of them sniffling around my ship."

Ayala nodded, reluctantly. It made sense. "Whom will you take with you?"

"You and Suvuk," Chakotay replied promptly. "Arm yourselves and be ready to shoot your way free. Seska, you have command. Work on that transporter. They don't seem to have shields at the moment, so it would be good if you could beam us out in case Captain Janeway is feeling treacherous."

The Bajoran nodded with grim determination. "I won't let you end up in a Fleet brig, Chakotay, don't worry."

"Good," Chakotay said. "Drop the shields and open a channel."

"Channel open."

"Chakotay to Starfleet vessel. Three to beam over."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Tom reached the bridge at the same moment and froze beside Janeway at the operations console when he heard the familiar voice.

"They're powering down their engines," Rollins reported. "Dropping their shields."

"Beam them over, Mr. Rollins," Janeway turned to face the center of the bridge, moving to rest her hands on the railing in expectation. _Like a she-mantis before jumping her prey_, Tom thought involuntarily.

The transporter effect began to take place in front of the shattered helm, summing in the usual, high-pitched whine. Janeway stepped down beside her command chair, waiting for the three separate figures to solidify completely before addressing them.

They materialized with their backs to each other – classic fighting formation – and with their phasers drawn. One of them, a black Vulcan, lowered his weapon immediately, though, unlike Chakotay and the dark-haired, grim-faced man on his other side.

_Oh no_, Tom realized in despair, _he's brought Greg with him! _Why did it have to be Greg, of all people? Why couldn't he leave Greg back in command? Chakotay was usually not foolish enough to believe the honey-covered Starfleet promises.

"Watch out, Captain! They're armed!" Rollins, drawing his own weapon, was already starting down toward her level.

Of course they were armed. Being abandoned by the Federation, then hunted by Starfleet and finally lied to and turned upon by the very people one fought with could damage a person's ability to trust for the rest of their lives. Tom shook his head. Had anyone really expected the Maquis to beam over to the very ship that had been sent out to find them unarmed?

Janeway obviously didn't. She spun to Rollins, shouting, "Put down your weapons," directing the order to the half-dozen already armed crewmembers as well.

"You won't need those here," she added, waving at Chakotay's phaser.

"Maybe," the big Maquis replied, "but I'd like to be the judge of that, if you don't mind, Captain."

"There was a brief clash of wills, then Janeway shrugged as if she had the upper hand anyway; then she smiled at the black Vulcan side warmly. "It's good to have you back, Mr. Tuvok."

The smug triumph in her voice made Tom wish Chakotay would shoot the Vulcan on the spot. He despised spies and traitors more than everything; it was the sad irony of his life that he was seen as one himself – by both sides. Chakotay, however, showed impressive self-discipline, staring simply at the Vulcan, who turned to him, hands clasped behind his back, and told flatly.

"I must inform you that I was assigned to infiltrate your crew, sir. I am Captain Janeway's chief of security."

It took a moment until all the ramifications of this statement sank in. Chakotay, after a moment of studying the Vulcan's impassive face, slowly holstered his phaser and motioned to Ayala to do the same, admitting his defeat.

"Were you going to deliver us into their waiting hands, Vulcan?" he asked, but his sarcasm lacked any real bite. The trust among comrades had been broken, and nothing could ever change that. The fact that he didn't call the Vulcan by name – an ancient, ritual custom of his people – clearly showed that the traitor was dead for him. Not a person. Not even an evil person. Just dead meat he was too disgusted to even touch.

"My mission was to accumulate information on Maquis activities," Tuvok replied in that cold Vulcan manner that made his people so unpleasant to work with at times. "And then deliver you into their 'waiting hands'. That is correct."

_Trust a Vulcan to make an already tense situation even worse_, Tom thought, bracing himself for the inevitable, for in that very moment Chakotay turned away from Tuvok, jaw and fists clenching – and discovered him standing on the upper level of the bridge.

"I see you had help," he said in a low, terribly cold voice. Tom suppressed a sigh, knowing he'd never be able to prove to Chakotay – to any Maquis – that he had not betrayed them, not when he was captured, nor was he about to betray them now. Not even Greg would ever believe him.

"It's good to see you too, Chakotay," he said glibly, just to save face.  But all he could see were Greg's dark eyes, full of hurt disappointment. Of course they were. Why should Greg, why should anyone of the Maquis give him the benefit of doubt? After all, he was standing on the bridge of the hunter ship, in a Starfleet uniform – a rankless one, granted, but a uniform nevertheless.

"At least the Vulcan was doing his duty as a Starfleet officer," Chakotay spat, though the look he actually shot towards the Vulcan could have frozen Hell over. "But you...!" He looked at Tom with a disgust reserved for particularly low and disgusting lifeforms. "You betrayed us for what? Freedom from prison? Latinum? What was your price this time?"

"Chak," Ayala said quietly, "remember, we don't know anything about last time. We never found any hard proof…"

Tom knew this didn't mean that Greg actually doubted his guilt. But Greg was not the man to judge before knowing the facts. _All_ the facts. And Chakotay knew that, too.

"You have always defended him," was all he said. "I told you he'd stab you in the back one day. Now you can see what he really is worth: nothing."

Hurtful as his words were, everyone who knew Chakotay could tell that he was just about to give the whole issue a second thought. Unfortunately, Janeway was not one of these people; and she chose this particular moment to interfere – and make everything worse. A _lot_ worse. Kathryn Janeway never did things by halves.

She stepped purposefully in front of Chakotay, pushing her face into his personal space, chin struck out challengingly, and planted a hand of his chest warningly. What was the matter with the woman, touching everyone in reach anyway?

"You're speaking to a member of my crew," she told him coolly. "I expect you to treat him with the same respect as you would have me treat a member of yours."

_Oh great, she has just declared me her personal project_, Tom thought in despair. _If the Maquis didn't see a traitor in me before, they surely will do so from now on._

But out loud he only said, "Why, Captain, I never knew I was actually a _member_ of your crew. All along, I thought I was just some Starfleet 'observer', unworthy to clean the aft deck with a toothbrush. Or do you think I believed for a minute that you wouldn't throw me back to jail after all this was over?"

There was no need to play games anymore. They were in the Delta Quadrant, Greg and the others had indeed been betrayed, though not by the person they thought, and there was no hope to knit the trust that was now broken, forever. He could lay his cards open onto the table.

"_Mister_ Paris," Janeway was furious, of course. Not only had her benevolent efforts been repelled, but her given word had been questioned as well, and that was something she was _not_ used to. "I gave you a promise, and I _did _intend to keep it – as long as _you_ kept up your end of the bargain."

"My end of a bargain?" Tom laughed quietly, and everyone, Starfleet and Maquis alike, felt a cold shiver running down their spines. "I never promised you anything, Captain. You came and hauled me out of jail in the hope I'd help you to find your little lost security chief. You never really _asked_ me if I wanted that 'bargain' at all."

"Sure you did," Chakotay growled. Why shouldn't you? You were in _prison_!"

"Now, I'll tell you what, Chakotay," Tom started getting angry, too. "I only had eight more months in prison, and I was in the secure wing, where nobody could touch me without being severely punished for it. I had regular meals, I was clean and I had a lot of time to think. Beats the gutter where you picked me up in Marseilles any time."

"You were caged in a cell," Ayala pointed out. "It must have driven you crazy. You are claustrophobic."

"I began to learn to live with it," Tom replied simply. "All I had to do was to stay put and shut up, and for the first time in my life, I was actually willing to do just that. But then, I was… drafted."

"So you were lying to me all the time?" Janeway demanded, her eyes blazing with cold fury. Tom shook his head.

"No, Captain. I just didn't tell you the whole truth. You might have learned much from the Admiral, being his personal protégée and all that, but I used to be his _son_. Very few people can beat me in this game."

He knew he had just cut down his credibility in the eyes of the Maquis – and probably in the Starfleet crew as well – to nothing, but he was sick and tired of all the mind games he had been forced to play lately. Now that all was out in the open, he didn't really care what would happen. He was just tired. Period.

"If you are so fond of your cozy little jail cell, we can arrange for you a retour ticket any time," Janeway said with a mildness that never reached her eyes. Tom didn't even flinch.

"Do as you wish, Captain. This never was really about me. But I believe at the moment you have more urgent matters to deal with."

"True," Janeway nodded, switching back to command mode with impressive self-restraint. "We have a lot to accomplish, and I suggest we all concentrate on finding our people and getting ourselves back home."

_So that you can sand me back to jail_, Tom added for himself, but basically, he agreed with her.

The Vulcan moved away from Chakotay to stand at Janeway's side, making his true allegiance very clear. Chakotay clenched his jaw but restrained himself.

"Based on my initial reconnaissance, Captain, I'm convinced that we are dealing with a single entity in the Array," Tuvok said. "I would suggest that he scanned our computers in order to select a comfortable holographic environment. In effect, a waiting room – to pacify us, prior to a biometric assessment."

Tom tried to separate the Vulcan's complicated speech patterns and translate them into plain, accessible English. "An… examination?" he asked.

Tuvok gave him that typical Vulcan look that expressed his forced patience with the slow and erratic thinking process of human beings.

"It is the most logical explanation," the Vulcan said. "Why else would we have been released unharmed?"

"Not all of us were," Tom reminded him pointedly. "Which raises the question: what could a green Starfleet ensign and a Maquis warrior have in common that might pique the interest of such an advanced alien being?"

"Whatever the answer is, it is down on that Array," Chakotay said slowly.

"And that is where we are going now," Janeway added. "Tuvok, break out the compression phaser rifles. Meet us in Transporter room 2 in half an hour. We'll divide into two teams. While Chakotay and I look for Kim and…"

"Torres," Chakotay supplied.

"And Torres, your job is to find out as much about this array as you can."

"Aye, Captain," the Vulcan replied, giving the alien structure on the cloudy viewscreen a doubtful glance. But Janeway stuck firm to her courage.

"It brought us here; we have to assume it can send us home."

"_If_ the alien is willing to use it that way," Chakotay added. "Because I don't think that we could acquire anything by force."

"Afraid not," Janeway agreed, ushering him and Ayala after Tuvok. "Mr. Rollins, maintain red alert. Keep us on constant transporter locks…"

"Captain?" Tom knew it was risky to interrupt her this time, but he couldn't help himself. This was too important. _Harry_ was too important. "I'd like to go with you," he said simply.

Those cold, unforgiving eyes softened a little. "If this has something to do with what Chakotay said…"

"It doesn't," for the first time in his dealings with her, Tom opted for the truth, fully aware of the fact that he was offering her excellent blackmail material with that. "I'd just…. I'd just hate to see anything happen to Harry."

She gave him her usual, measuring stare, guessing – correctly – how much it had cost him to simply trust. Then she nodded, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Come on. Maybe you're not such a waste, after all."

Tom shook his head in amusement, uncertain whether he had been insulted or given a compliment – then he followed her into the turbolift."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

**End notes:**

(1) Emergency Engineering Toolkit. Yes, I know that there probably isn't such thing and that Chakotay isn't an engineer. It's just like repairing your own car without the help of a car mechanic, OK?


	12. Interlude 3: The Trap

**THE LOST VOYAGES**

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

**CARETAKER**

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** G, for this part.

**Author's notes:** It's high time to take a look at the mysterious runabout, isn't it? Don't hope for revelations where her crew is concerned, though. That'll come later. Much later. Though TNG fans might be able to make an educated guess.

As for the technobabble, I freely admit that I don't really understand the differences between all those phenomena that keep popping up in all Trek series. But since they're all fictional anyway, I try not to feel terribly guilty.

Beta-red by the most generous Brigid, whom I owe my sincerest gratitude. All remaining mistakes are mine.

**INTERLUDE #3: THE TRAP**

Meanwhile somewhere in the Delta Quadrant…

It bordered on a miracle that the _Shenandoah_ had survived the forced transfer halfway through the Galaxy, but these little vessels were surprisingly resilient. The warp drive had barely taken any damage – at least not more than the two crewmembers, neither of them an engineer, could repair without professional help. Impulse engines and thrusters were in working order as well, and after the first skittish reactions even the main computer could be persuaded to return to normal.

Just in time to tell them that they were seventy thousand light years from their actual destination.

"We are in trouble," the leader of the mission summarized.

She was a thin but steel-hard, dark-haired Bajoran woman who had earned the code name Raven-takes-the-Bow with her superior piloting skills. Of course, for day-to-day use she was simply called Raven, the rightness of that name being emphasized by a delicate bone crest on the bridge of her nose instead of the usual ridges of her people. A crest that branched out in an elegant, forked arch above her dark brows – a trait shared only by a small minority of Bajorans. It gave her otherwise rather plain face an aristocratic air.

"At least we seem to have ridden the displacement wave rather than colliding with it," her partner, a bearded human male, replied.

He was tall and almost painfully thin though his build would have indicated a much heavier body. His high-necked shirt hid the more obvious signs, but Raven had seen him naked. Even though he always insisted on shutting the lights off when they were together, she was well aware of the multitude of bruises, burns and lacerations that covered his whole body. He had obviously been extensively tortured in the Cardassian prison from which the Maquis had miraculously managed to free him not so long ago. And while his physical wounds were healing as much as could be expected, and he had gained back some of the weight he had lost, his haunted eyes – unnaturally big in his haggard face – told of memories that weren't likely to fade any time soon.

He was known under the code name Greywolf among the Maquis cell leaders, and though Raven had known his personal history before they even met, she was still utterly shocked from the damage he had suffered in the prison camp. Being a Bajoran, Raven had seen some horrible things in her life – including the execution of her own father by the Cardassians – she had never seen anyone being tortured to death slowly and deliberately. According to the Maquis medic, Greywolf wouldn't have held out much longer. There is only so much pain a body can endure without breaking beyond repair.

But they had rescued him just days before he would reach that breaking point, and the man, unbelievable but true, was actually about to return to normal. Some of the scars were too bad, even for the regenerator, but otherwise he was bouncing back with a determination rarely seen even among Bajorans. And now, that he looked a lot less like his alter ego, Raven felt less awkward around him than she had before.

She still asked herself if it had been wise to get involved with him, though. There was some unpleasant mixing of memories that might have been better avoided.

Of course, it was way too late for that now. They were stuck together, probably for the rest of their lives. Lost in the Delta Quadrant.

Raven shook her head, her ceremonial earring clinking, and concentrated on the problems at hand. If they were unlucky enough, she'd have a very long time contemplating her choices.

"Have you tried to reach the _Crazy Horse_?" she asked. Greywolf nodded.

"No answer so far. I wonder whether they made it through with us at all," he answered with a sigh. Raven shot him an angry look.

"They better had. Or I'll hunt down Chakotay in the afterlife personally and make his happy hunting grounds a lot less happy."

"Raven," the man said patiently, "you do realize how small the chance is that a battered old vessel like the _Crazy Horse_ would make it through that displacement wave, don't you?"

"Of course I do," she replied angrily. "But I also know that _Chakotay_ was sitting in the pilot seat of that handful of rusty metal. The man could fly a torpedo casket through an ion storm and come out on the other end unharmed. If anyone, he'd bring the _Crazy Horse_ through this energy wave."

"_If_ anyone," Greywolf emphasized. "You still have to take into consideration that – regardless of Chakotay's piloting skills – they might _not_ have made it."

"No!" Raven said calmly, through her dark eyes blazed. "I'm not willing to even consider having lost another good man to the thrice-damned spoonheads! Or to some random energy wave. Until I see some hard proof, I'll keep believing that they've made it."

"It's your choice," Greywolf shrugged. "I for my part prefer to remain realistic. But that displacement wave… I doubt that it was a random one. Or a natural phenomenon. Remember, just after we arrived here, we were scanned by something – or someone. And after that, we found the _Shenandoah_ hundreds of light years from the original coordinates of our arrival --- and ourselves missing four days' worth of memories. That can't be a coincidence."

"Agreed," Raven said. "Someone or something brought us here. Then it probably studied us for a while. Until it decided that we weren't worth keeping and threw us out of the way."

"Which means… what exactly?" Greywolf asked.

"It means that the answers we need are still there where we first arrived in the Delta Quadrant," Raven answered grimly. "Maybe the people of the _Crazy Horse_ are there, too. But even if they aren't – I want those answers."

"With other words: we are going back," Greywolf guessed.

Raven gave him a determined nod.

"You bet we do. Let the computer retrace our course, then reverse directions and switch to autopilot. It should be easily doable."

"It is. That's not the point, Raven."

"So? What _is_ the point then?"

"The point is that some extremely powerful and dangerous entity apparently decided that we are not worth its attention. For which we should be grateful."

"And do what? Limp back to the Alpha Quadrant on our own? Sure, at top speed it would only take a hundred standard years or so…"

"You really think that we have a better chance by turning back?"

"You really think that we have any _other_ chance?"

Greywolf didn't. Not really. So he just sighed in defeat and ordered the computer to retrace their course.

"With maximum Warp we'll need about six days to reach the original coordinates," Greywolf said when the machine finally spat out the results.

"Can the engines take it?" Raven asked. "I know all the tests checked out fine, but we've taken quite a shaking, you know?"

Greywolf shrugged. "Yeah, I know. Only the real thing will show how fine they truly are. So, what should we do? You're the boss."

"Not here," Raven said, "not anymore. We only have each other out here, and if we want to find the _Crazy Horse_, we must work in tandem."

"But you _do_ want to go back to the original coordinates, right?"

"Yes. Is there a problem?"

"No. Not yet. But there will probably be one, once we are back. In the form of a very powerful and royally pissed entity. Or a whole _lot_ of very powerful and royally pissed entities."

"Fine," Raven sat back into her pilot's chair and crossed her arms. "You have a better plan? Tell me."

"I haven't," Greywolf admitted. "I just…"

"You are just being self-righteous and annoying," Raven said, clearly irritated. "Just like your… like the other version of you."

Greywolf stiffened involuntarily. This was a topic they usually avoided very carefully.

"Look," he said through gritted teeth, "we are probably damned to spend our lives alone in the Delta Quadrant. It would be better if we could leave my… a certain person out of the game. I know you had a thing with him, but…"

"For a few days only," replied Raven defensively, "and just because I… we both had our memories blocked."

"But you _were_ attracted to him, weren't you? And he was attracted to you. Otherwise the two of you wouldn't have got involved in the moment all the knowledge of your previous differences was out of the way."

Raven shrugged. "He was… well, I guess he still _is_… a big hunk of a man. I like that in a partner, so what? Are you jealous?"

"Jealous?" Greywolf frowned. "No, I'm just sick and tired of being compared with him all the time. Besides, we are not involved in any way. All we have together is a little fun."

"True enough," Raven nodded, "but what I meant is: are you still jealous of _him_? For having the life you've always thought would be yours? For having way more luck than you had… than you could ever _hope_ to have?"

"I don't want to talk about it," the human answered dismissively. Raven let out an impatient sigh.

"I understand that. But you should. Otherwise you'll never have a life of your own. You'll always waste your time with fighting his shadow. Think about it. You deserve better."

"I said I don't want to talk about it," Greywolf repeated tersely. Especially not with you."

"You should reconsider," said Raven seriously. "Who else _is_ here to talk to? And who else may ever be here who knows both of you – and the whole situation? But do as you wish. I can't force you to come to your senses. Now, what's the highest speed you'd suggest?"

"Warp 5," Greywolf answered promptly. "Even if problems do start popping up, at that speed, and with a little TLC, we should be able to manage."

"TLC?" the Bajoran repeated with a puzzled look. Greywolf grinned.

"Human jargon. It means 'tender, loving care'."

"I see," Raven frowned again. "Not exactly my field of expertise, in any department. All right, let's reverse our course. I'll fly, and you can do that caring part. With tender lover or whatever."

They had backtracked for almost five standard days. It was a long, arduous journey, during which they had barely spoken to each other. Greywolf was brooding in his co-pilot's seat – although Raven thought it was more like sulking – while the autopilot flew their small vessel and the Bajoran was going through old meditative chants that she had learned in her childhood.

"I thought you weren't on the best terms with your precious Prophets," Greywolf said on the fifth day, when his shipmate's constant humming started getting on his nerves. "You said you weren't particularly religious."

"I'm not," she replied. "But I was brought up in the faith of my people. And out here – what other home do I have? It's comforting."

Before Greywolf could give any answer, they were hit by something. Hard. So hard that the runabout dropped out of warp and came to full stop.

Raven sprinted forward to her pilot's seat, switching on the long-range scanners that had been off-line to lessen the drain on the engines. "What the hell…"

She ran a routine scan on the space before them, using maximum scanning range, and her face darkened.

"Damn it! We've run into some sort of spatial distortions. They keep emanating from a certain time-space disturbance."

"What sort of phenomenon?" Greywolf asked. "A cosmic string fragment perhaps? Or a random distortion ring?"

"Nah, the gravimetric flux density is too high for that," Raven answered, running more specific scans on the phenomenon."

Greywolf's pale face became ghostly white under his dark beard. "_How_ high?"

"Over two thousand per cent," Raven said grimly. "All signs indicate a Type Four quantum singularity."

"Do we have any chance to avoid being caught in the event horizon?" Greywolf asked.

Raven shook her head regretfully. "Afraid not. The moment we were hit by the distortion waves, we got trapped already. I am very sorry. Had I not insisted that we return to the original coordinates, we would have at least a few more decades to live. Even if we'd have to spend them here, in the Delta Quadrant."

"Or the same thing could have happened tomorrow, in the opposite direction," Greywolf pointed out. "It wasn't your fault."

"Maybe not, maybe it was. What should we do now?"

"Send a distress call. And hope that there is someone in this quadrant with a technology advanced enough to pull us out."

"And if there isn't?"

"Well, in that case we'll have enough time to talk about everything we want."

TBC


	13. Chapter 10: Broken Wings

**THE LOST VOYAGES**

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

**CARETAKER**

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** G, for this part.

**Author's notes:** The genuine medical facts and medical jargon were provided by Ithilwen of Himring, may all Delta Quadrant deities bless her. The technobabble is completely made up by me, so it probably doesn't make any sense at all. Beta read by the ever-gracious Brigid, whom I cannot thank often enough.

CHAPTER TEN: BROKEN WINGS 

It was dark, very dark, and in the still empty halls of her reality dozens of unique cries of despair and pain echoed. The pain was gone now, leaving a strange numbness behind, and she found that she could not move. Even opening her eyes was beyond her strength.

She stretched out her mental feelers, seeking connection, but there was none. That was wrong, that couldn't be – she was on a ship with a crew of one hundred and forty-one, she should be able to reach _somebody_…

She tried to move her hand, to reach out and feel around herself, find out where she was, but to no end. Still, she could not stay so isolated any longer, separated from other minds, from other feelings and thoughts, with only the echoes of the crew's former agony in her head…

She collected all her remaining mental strength and sent out a soundless cry of utter despair, with all the force she still could manage.

Sickbay 

Had nurse T'Prena been careless enough to let her mental shields down while watching her unconscious patient, the raw power of the Betazoid's telepathic outcry could have caused serious damage to her. But T'Prena of Vulcan was an experienced nurse, and she had studied the crew's medical files carefully, after being assigned to _Voyager_. As a result, she was well aware of Stadi's potential, and she knew how emotionally stressed Betazoids could get.

Still, the distress call, sent from mind to mind, hit her like a blow. She swayed for a moment and had to grab the end of a biobed for a moment.

"Doctor," she said, a little more shaken than a Vulcan should be, under any given circumstance, "I think our patient begins to regain consciousness."

The EMH darted forth from his office in a strangely cheerful mood, waving some old-fashioned medical tool in his hand.

"Hmmm, good! Then we can finally take a closer look at her eyes."

T'Prena withstood the very un-Vulcan-like urge to roll her eyes. It was _not_ easy. The EMH had developed this strange fascination for centuries-old medical instruments in the time frame of mere hours, and there didn't seem to be an end to it.

"Doctor, the diagnostic computer has already catalogued all the corneal abrasions the lieutenant had suffered due to the explosion. There was no need to replicate an outdated, 21st century instrument for _any_ further examinations. Especially since we have managed to remove all foreign debris from the eyes."

"Oh, but a more... personal touch would never harm," replied the EMH brightly. "Now, if you would kindly place flourescein dye in her eyes so that I can look at the cornea using this lamp…"

"I most certainly will _not_," T'Prena said sharply, sharper than he had actually intended. The EMH had an uncanny talent to irritate her, in spite of her disciplined Vulcan nature. "The procedure would only put more stress on the patient; it is unpleasant and it will not bring any new insights. Therefore it is useless and illogical."

"Useless?" the EMH bristled, very much in the manner of an unjustly insulted human. "This method was used with very good results…"

"… in the 21st century," T'Prena interrupted. "That was _three hundred years ago_, doctor. And if you find it all right to cause discomfort to a severely injured patient, just so that you can play with your new toy, then something must be wrong with your ethical subroutines. Perhaps I should ask Lt. Carey to check your programme."

"To play!" the EMH sputtered. "Nurse, you are forgetting to whom you are talking!"

"On the contrary, doctor," T'Prena would have preferred not to take such a drastic step, but she saw no other solution. "Computer, freeze emergency medical holographic program."

Before the EMH could protest, he was immobilized in the middle of the intensive care unit. T'Prena touched her comm badge." "T'Prena to Janeway."

The answer immediately. "Go ahead."

"Captain, could you come to sickbay? Your authority is required."

"Can't this wait, nurse? We are on our way to that Array."

"I am afraid it cannot, Captain. Lieutenant Stadi's recovery may depend on this."

There was a short silence. Then a sigh. Then finally the short answer. "On my way. Janeway out."

A few minutes later Janeway stormed into sickbay with an apparently concerned Tom Paris in tow.

"So, what is it?" she asked, a little impatiently. "Is Stadi conscious?"

"Barely," T'Prena answered. "She is coming to just now."

"What is wrong with her eyes?" Janeway asked. "Why is she wearing eye-patches?"

"Fragments of metallic particulate matter from the explosion have created a series of linear abrasions on her corneal surfaces," the EMH injected in an almost maniacal hurry, "resulting in a reactive keratitis."

Janeway's eyes glassed over slightly. "In Standard, please…?"

"She had foreign debris in her eyes, from the exploding console," T'Prena explained calmly. "We have already removed the fragments and are treating the corneal abrasions with antibiotic ointments and drops to dilate the pupil, which eases the pain."

"Are these abrasions very painful?" Tom asked softly. "Will she be able to regain her eyesight completely?"

"We hope so," T'Prena said. "Shallow abrasions, though rather painful, usually react well to the treatment I mentioned, and heal within a day or two. Unfortunately, the lieutenant has suffered a few deeper ones as well, and these will take many days to heal. There also could be some scarring, in which case she would be left with permanent visual deficits. At the moment, we cannot say if she will make a full recovery yet."

"Which is exactly why I want to examine her eyes with this instrument," the EMH prompted with a scowl.

Janeway glanced doubtfully at the primitive-looking thing in his hand. "What _is_ this?"

"A relict from the 21st century," T'Prena answered quickly before the EMH could. "It is called a blue-light slit lamp and was once used to check abrasions in the corneal area. If flourescein dye is placed in the eyes, and the lamp is directed at them, any abrasions will fluoresce yellow. Theoretically. But the lieutenant's eyes are irritated enough as it is; plus we have more efficient methods for both diagnosis and treatment of this kind of eye injuries. I do not see any reason to go through this procedure. The doctor happens to disagree. I have called you, Captain, because I would like to spare the lieutenant any more discomfort."

"I see," Janeway looked at the EMH with slight concern. "Why would the doctor insist using such outdated instruments?"

"I do not know, Captain. It could be a glitch in his programme – it was not meant to run all the time, some circuits may have been overloaded. I would suggest a complete system check, if anyone from Engineering could be spared."

"Unfortunately, both our diagnostic engineers _and_ the Chief are dead, as you surely know," Janeway sighed. "But Ensign Vorik might be able to run the system check on his own. I'll see that he comes down here, as soon as possible. Can we go on without the doctor for a few hours?"

"If no emergencies arise, we can," T'Prena said. "I would suggest we leave him immobilized but online. His diagnostic subroutines are still working flawlessly, and he showed no system failures during the operation. This whole… phenomenon started approximately 2.07 hours ago. He seems increasingly obsessed with archaic healing methods."

"Holograms can't be obsessed, nurse," Janeway pointed out.

"Not usually," T'Prena agreed, "and that is exactly what concerns me."

"All right then, let's leave him in this mode," Janeway nodded. "What about Lt. Stadi's other injuries? She hit the bridge floor pretty hard. Did the impact cause any serious damage?"

"A traumatic fracture and associated subluxation of the T1 vertebral body occurred when she hit the chair railing," the EMH chimed in with morbid cheerfulness, "causing severe extramedullary compression of the spinal cord at the T-2 level and permanent paraplegia."

Janeway and Paris exchanged identical blank looks. Having had field medic training was still not enough medical background for Tom to understand this level of jargon. The captain turned to the Vulcan nurse.

"Translation?"

"Her spinal cord was severed at the T1-T2 vertebral junction," T'Prena said. "That is, just below the point where the neck joins the trunk."

"The doc said something about paraplegia that didn't sound good," Tom said slowly. "Will she ever be able to leave that biobed again?"

"She will most likely preserve normal arm function," T'Prena answered, "but will be completely paralyzed from the chest down."

"Oh God," Tom muttered in shock, "she's a _pilot_… and she'll never fly again?" For him, this seemed a fate worse than death.

"The chances are slim," T'Prena nodded. "I remember having read of alternative therapies in the journal of the Alderman Neurological Institute, some three years ago, but they were still in experimental stadium and fairly risky."

"Nevertheless, once Vorik has checked the doctor's program, both you and he should start doing some research on this topic," Janeway ordered. "I don't know how long it might take us to get home, but it can't harm to inform ourselves and be prepared to deal with the problem on our own."

"As you wish, Captain," the Vulcan said. "When is your estimated time of return to _Voyager_?"

"That," Janeway answered grimly, "you should ask from the entity who has brought us here. In any case, Vorik and you should hurry up with the diagnostics. Ensign Kim might need the doctor when we return him from that Array."

"_If_ you return him," T'Prena corrected. Janeway frowned.

"I prefer to remain optimistic, nurse."

"That is certainly your right, Captain," the Vulcan replied. "However, being _realistic_ may prove more useful in this case."

With this typical Vulcan answer in their ears – an answer to which, as so often, there was no proper riposte – Janeway and Paris left sickbay to join the others in the transporter room. It was time to face their nemesis openly.

Approximately fifteen point six minutes later Ensign Vorik arrived in sickbay to check on the EMH's program. T'Prena was secretly relieved to have her fellow Vulcan for the time-consuming system check. A human engineer would feel the urge to prattle while working, and T'Prena had more important things to do. Small talk was such a waste of time, and yet humans were so inclined to it…

"Do you require assistance?" she asked Vorik, but the engineer shook his head.

"Not at the moment, thank you. I shall call you if necessary."

"Understood. In that case I shall return to my patient. She could regain full consciousness in any time now and might have questions that need to be answered."

"Your patient? _Your_ patient?" the EMH sputtered. "You are a mere nurse, not even a medical technician! I don't know what the Captain was thinking… leaving a patient in such serious condition in the care of a _nurse_! And what about the Benzite babies? Have you thought of turning them onto their other side? To control their feeding tubes? To…"

The two Vulcans exchanged a look full of understanding and agreement.

"Perhaps I should switch off his vocal subroutines," Vorik offered. T'Prena nodded with somber dignity.

"That would be appreciated, Ensign. My patient needs rest."

Infuriated, the EMH tried to protest again, but no sound left his holographic mouth. T'Prena nodded her thanks and returned to the intensive care unit.

"Lieutenant," she asked quietly, "are you awake?

Stadi gave a tiny nod and tried to answer but found that she could not.

"Mouth… dry…" she cracked with great effort.

T'Prena changed the settings of the biobed, adjusting the headboard to forty-five degrees, raising the patient into a semi-sitting position. Then she pulled down one of the plastic tubes that hung ready above the bed and brought its end to the Betazoid's dry lips.

"Drink slowly and in small sips," she warned her patient, and to her satisfaction Stadi obeyed, although she had to be very thirsty. "That is enough. You can have more in a few minutes."

Stadi didn't protest when the water tube was taken from her. For a short while she lay quietly, apparently exhausted from the small effort of drinking. Then she licked her lips and turned her head to where she guessed the nurse would be.

"What… happened?" She asked. "Why… can't I see?"

"You have suffered eye injuries," T'Prena explained as simply as possible. "The treatment requires the widening of the pupils. You are wearing eye-patches to protect your eyes."

Stadi signaled her understanding with a small gesture of her head. "How… serious…?"

"Fortunately, they are no punctures," T'Prena said. "Only abrasions. They are painful, but they will heal in a few days. If there is no scarring, you might regain your eyesight fully."

Again, a tiny nod. "Chances…?"

"Eighty-five point nine per cent," T'Prena could never understand the human practice of white lies. Stadi needed to know how her chances stood; and she was a mature adult, capable of facing the truth.

"That's… not bad," Stadi breathed in relief and promptly fell asleep again. Illogical as it seemed, T'Prena was glad that she had not asked about the rest of her condition. That had time. She will learn of it soon enough.

The nurse walked over to the incubator to check the condition of the Benzite babies. The little fishheads were still dangerously small, but their limbs had grown an average of two millimeters since their birth, and the dorsal fluke had begun to shrink – all which should have happened during the additional weeks spent in their father's pouch. All in all, they seemed healthy enough, considering their premature delivery, and T'Prena calculated their chances to survive approximately ninety-three point six per cent, which was promising. Assuming Vorik would find the reason for the EMH's deteriorating, of course.

T'Prena was an experienced nurse, 'with decades of duty under her belt', as humans preferred to say, but she couldn't replace a physician. Not even a holographic one. She had attended to many special courses, but she was not qualified to perform operations, except very minor ones, and even if she was ready to overstep the restrictions that regulated the duties of a head nurse, there were conditions she simply couldn't treat on her own. The crew _needed_ the EMH, especially here in the Delta Quadrant, where they had no access to Starfleet resources.

T'Prena, for her part, seriously doubted that Captain Janeway would be able to get any help from the entity who owned the Array and preferred a more practical approach to their situation. To put it simply, she had accepted the fact that they might be stuck in this part of the Galaxy and was prepared to deal with it.

"T'Prena," Vorik called out to her, lying under the central computer unit of sickbay in which the EMH was stored, "I believe I have found the problem."

"That was fast," T'Prena joined him in the main room. "Is it a mechanical one?"

"I think so," Vorik got out from under the console and pointed at one of the small displays. "Do you see these erratic readings? According to the unit's self-diagnostic log, they started shortly after the Maquis had knocked out our tractor emitters. It seems the hit had caused a feedback loop in the board computer, due to the internal damage from earlier, and that knocked out various important systems in no particular order."

"We are lucky that it happened _after_ the operation on Lt. Stadi," T'Prena murmured. "I assume that means the EMH-program must be taken offline until the problem is solved."

Vorik nodded. "That is correct. We will have to run a complete system check on the board computer, before other systems start shutting down, one by one. I will return to Engineering immediately and clear this with Lt. Carey; he is the next in command now and has to coordinate the repairs."

"Agreed. How long will it take to perform a complete computer system check?"

"Several hours at the best, perhaps even more. The best-qualified people for the job are dead, our chief of operations is missing – it will not be easy." Vorik collected his tools and put them back into the toolkit with absent-minded practicality. "Can I do anything else for you?"

"No; the other systems seem to be working within normal parameters... for now. As long as no new emergencies arise, I should be able to handle things here."

Vorik simply nodded and left, without wasting any more words. T'Prena resisted the urge to sigh.

"Computer, deactivate emergency medical holographic program," she said. The EMH flickered out of existence. T'Prena took the seat in Dr. Fitzgerald's office, behind the desk, from where she could watch over both Stadi and the babies with the help of the diagnostic monitors and ordered the medical computer to show her the journals of the Aldeman Neurological Institute from 2368 and search for the articles of one Dr. Toby Russel.

**_Engineering_**

Engineering still resembled a battlefield when Vorik arrived. Some crewmen, redirected by Lt. Rollins from other sections, were busily cleaning up the debris, while all available engineering personnel (which was a depressingly low number, but fortunately, Vulcans had no tendency towards such illogical behavior patterns as depressions) worked furiously to fix the extensive damage. He found Lt. Carey in the Chief's office, where the human engineer was trying to trace down the same feedback loop that he had detected in sickbay.

"The cursed thing has knocked off sixty per cent of the buffers that provide energy to the replicators," Carey murmured. "They are beyond repair, all we can do is to recycle the raw material. Transporter efficiency has sunk to forty-seven per cent… damn!"

"That would still cause no problems in the normal transporter function," Sue Nicoletti said encouragingly… then her smile withered. "Of course, an emergency beam-out, under different circumstances, could blow up the whole system."

"Sickbay is affected, too," Vorik told him. "T'Prena had to take the EMH offline. It started to develop erratic behavior patterns."

Carey stared at him as if he had just made a very silly joke. Then the true meaning of that bit of information sank in, and the acting chief slumped into his seat.

"Great, just great! Does it mean what I think it means?"

"If you are implying that we will have to make a complete system check on the board computer, then the answer is 'yes'," Vorik replied. Carey gave him an exasperated look.

"That was a _rhetorical_ question, Vorik!"

"My apologies, Lieutenant. However…"

"I know, I know. It has to be done, and the sooner we start with it, the quicker it's done. Just what we needed, right now, when we have too few people for all the other repairs already."

Vorik started the time-consuming work without further delay. Carey ordered Nicoletti to help him; then, when they finally left him alone, he called sickbay.

"T'Prena," the Vulcan nurse sounded as calm as always – infuriatingly calm. But Carey had had the chance to get used to Vulcan demeanor since Vorik had been aboard.

"Engineering, Lt. Carey here. Tell me, nurse, just how bad is the EMH's condition?"

"I cannot give you the correct answer, Lieutenant. I am no holo-engineer. All I can say is that for a physician, his reactions have been erratic and irresponsible since the Maquis hit us."

"That is bad," Carey said grimly. "Sounds like a serious system failure. But the real problem is that I don't know all that much about the technology that was used by the EMH's creation. What if we can't fix the program? Are you capable of running sickbay on your own?"

"No, I am not," replied the Vulcan promptly. "I am a nurse, not a physician. I can provide minor treatments, but I am not qualified to work as a doctor."

"But you have worked as a head nurse for _decades_! Certainly, with some studying you can step in for Doc Fitzgerald, at least on the day-to-day basis."

"That," said T'Prena slowly, "would require a _lot_ of learning."

"Then I hope you are a quick study," Carey answered, "because, unless the captain manages to intimidate that alien into sending us home, you are our best choice. System failures are spreading on the whole ship, and none of us is a good enough engineer to tinker with the EMH unless we absolutely have to. That thing would probably need the whole Jupiter Station to fix it – we don't even have a diagnostic engineer left. Carey out."

T'Prena, too, broke the connection, and for a while she simply stared at the blackened vidscreen, collecting her thoughts. She could not run sickbay on her own. That much was certain. But she could start a training program for med techs and nurses. And that Starfleet _observer_, Thomas Paris, had been trained as a field medic…

Granted, Dr. Fitzgerald had told some unpleasant stories about the young human, but T'Prena was quite sure that she could keep him firmly on his place. And field medic training was still a hundred per cent better than any other surviving crewmembers had.

She opened a file and began to formulate her official request, addressed to the captain. Under normal circumstances, she would send it to Lt. Cmdr. Cavit, as the first officer was usually responsible for work assignments. But they had no first officer at the moment, and though the captain was extremely busy, the health of the crew was of utmost importance.

The captain would just have to deal with it.

**_Crew's quarters_**

Elsewhere on the ship, Ensign Samantha Wildman finally found the medical tricorder that she had acquired back on DS9, under the debris of what used to be her quarters. The sturdy little instrument seemed all right at first sight, yet as she tried to switch it on nothing happened.

"Damn!" the soft-faced blonde woman uttered under her breath. She needed to check her own condition but didn't want to go to sickbay and make it public just now. That was the reason for buying a medical tricorder in the first place. As an exobiologist, she was capable of using simple medical equipment quite well. "Damn it, they said these things were practically indestructible!"

"Who said it?" a familiar voice asked, and her best friend, Shauna Brooks, peered into her quarters through the door that had remained partially ajar after the last hit.

"The Ferengi who sold it to me," Wildman replied, handing Shauna the uncooperative instrument. Brooks rolled her eyes.

"Sam, how many times have you been told not to buy _anything_ from a Ferengi?"

"I had no other choice," Wildman defended herself. "There aren't any shops for medical supplies on DS9, and the Infirmary personnel wouldn't give me one of their tricorders."

"How do you know that? Have you asked?"

"No, I haven't. That's not a thing you ask a Starfleet doctor – or his Bajoran aides – on the frontier, where they barely manage to supply themselves."

"Sounds noble," Brooks said with mild irony. "Unless, of course, the Ferengi had this piece stolen from the very same personnel of said Infirmary."

"I doubt that. This is an older Starfleet-issue model, not in daily use anymore. Dr. Bashir and his people have newer and better ones. But it still worked when I bought it, and it'd be good enough for what I need."

"Let me see…" Brooks turned the tricorder in her hand back and forth. "Ah! That's the problem. The circuitry in this module has been broken… most likely when it ended up under some heavy debris."

"In other words: it's useless," Wildman said glumly. Brooks shook her head.

"Nah, I won't say that. It's fairly minor damage. I'll try to fix it for you. Let's go to my quarters, they're in a much better shape than yours, and I'll see what I can do."

Wildman agreed, not lastly because her own quarters were beyond immediate help anyway, and they rode the turbolift to Deck 3 where Brooks' quarters were. This section has suffered very little damage, so Shauna's rooms were in better shape – if one left the various pieces of clothing left in complete disarray on the most unlikely places out of consideration. Once again, Wildman asked herself how could someone like Shauna, who was the epitome of a neat officer _outside_ her quarters, from the swirl of her reddish hair on top of her pretty head to her polished boots, live in a pig stall like this.

Behind closed doors Shauna was an incredible slob(1). Wildman had first-hand experience with that. She and Brooks had been roommates at the Academy for four years, and this was about the only thing they had ever fought over.

Still, Shauna seemed to find her way through her own chaos, as always. Within a minute, she produced a small toolkit from somewhere, selected a fine-looking little tool that Wildman couldn't identify for her life, and started taking the tricorder apart. There could be no doubt that she'd be able to put it together again, and that it would work properly. Tinkering was one of Shauna's hobbies, and she had become very good at it.

"Here," she said after twenty minutes or so, "try it now!"

Wildman pressed the "On" switch, and the old-fashioned little instrument began to purr contentedly. "Shauna, you are incredible!"

"So are you," Brooks replied, watching the readouts with widening eyes. "Have you known about this long?"

"No. I mean, Gresk(2) and I _have_ been trying ever since we stopped getting our shots, but to no effect… until now."

"Lousy timing," Brooks commented with sympathy. "Unless the captain manages to get us back home the same way we've got here, of course. But somehow I doubt it."

"Me, too," Wildman sighed, " and considering what that ride did to the ship, I don't know if we should wish for it. I don't know what to do, Shauna. For the first time since I married Gresk, I actually wish we hadn't succeeded."

"It's too late for that," Brooks said. "Now you have to make the best of if, and you'll have to plan carefully. Getting new quarters should be the first thing on your 'to do' list."

"But I don't want to make this public knowledge yet," Wildman replied. "I don't want to tell anyone, unless I have to. I don't want people to start walking on eggshells around me and getting worried if I should be doing this or that… This is not an illness, after all. It's the most natural thing for a woman."

"You don't have to persuade _me_ about that," Brooks said soothingly. "I do have a kid myself, after all… and I'm grateful that he's at home with my Mom and hubby, safe and sound…even though I miss him already terribly," she added with a sad smile. "But you'll need new quarters in any case, Sam. Yours are nothing but a huge pile of unsalvageable rubbish."

"True enough. But with the XO dead I doubt this would be the time to start making demands. The captain is busy with more important things at the moment."

"You can stay with me until you get the matter settled," Brooks offered; then, with a self-ironic little grin, she added. "I know I'm a slob, but you are used to that already. And first and foremost, I'm your friend. You might need me when things start getting more… complicated."

"I know," Wildman hugged her spontaneously. "I wish I could get new quarters closer to yours."

Brooks thought about that for a moment. "That's a distinct possibility, you know. My neighbour to the left, Amanda Crag, died in Engineering when we were abducted. You could move into her quarters – this section was spared, so they should be undamaged."

"I don't know," Wildman said with an uncomfortable frown. "It seems like grave robbery somehow."

"Don't be ridiculous! You _need_ new quarters, and Amanda's rooms would be reoccupied sooner or later anyway. In fact, you'd be entitled to more living space than the average junior officer, but for that you'd have to tell the whole truth."

"No, standard quarters would be just fine. Even with the baby, I'd still have more than enough room."

"That's where you are wrong – children need a lot more space than adults do. But we can argue about _that_ later. The most important thing is right now that you get those new quarters. I'd be happy to keep you here with me as long as you need, but you wouldn't put up with my untidiness for long, and we both know that. Now, sit down at my terminal and write a request for Crag's quarters!"

Wildman would have liked to protest, but she knew that her friend was right. In about eight months, she'll give birth, no matter if they managed to return home or were fated to live out their lives in the Delta Quadrant. She _needed_ new quarters – she owed it to her baby to give it the best chance to grow. So she sat down with a sigh and started to formulate that request.

She regretted bothering the captain with her personal problems, but there was no other way to solve them. The captain would just have to deal with it.

TBC

* * *

**End notes:**

(1) According to the "Lower Decks" website, "Ensign Brooks has reddish hair, often worn in a swirl on top of her head. Wanders around in the background of almost every scene in the Federation habitat in 'Displaced'. Would have been Seven of Nine's 'cabin mate' during one of the various timelines. Is rather untidy, according to Seven of Nine's standards, as stated in 'The Year of Hell'. She is played by Sue Henley, Kate Mulgrew's stand-in." I gave her a first name and made her Sam Wildman's old friend.

(2) According to canon, Ensign Wildman was married to a Ktarian named Greskrendtregk who either served or DS9 or was just visiting his wife before _Voyager_'s start. She had some difficulties to pronounce her hubby's name in "Deadlock", so I assumed she had a pet name for him, for daily use. g


	14. Chapter 11: Pointless Efforts

**THE LOST VOYAGES**

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

**CARETAKER **

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** G, for this part.

**Author's notes:** The true form of the Caretaker was inspired by the "Frogs", the ultimate bad guys of the 1964 German sci-fi series "Raumpatrouille", also known as "The Fantastic Adventures of the Spaceship Orion" – a short-lived show, placed in the 30th century. It was the first sci-fi series I had ever seen, at the tender age of 10 (it came on Hungarian TV a little late). Though in hindsight it was a pretty silly one, it got me hooked on the whole genre. For the record, I had the first chance to watch the original Star Trek in the late 1980's. But I wrote my first sci-fi story (which, fortunately, ceased to exist soon afterwards) when I was 11 years old. You do the math. ;)

So, here is a homage to "Raumpatrouille" and the unforgettable "Frogs". They were cool.

Beta read by the ever-generous Brigid – thank you.

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: POINTLESS EFFORTS**

Chakotay, Ayala and Tuvok were waiting in icy silence for Janeway and Paris to join them in the transporter room. The transporter technician, a nervous young man named Martin, shot them uneasy looks. The tension was almost tangible between the two Maquis and the Vulcan, and the fact that they were all carrying compression phaser rifles didn't make the whole situation particularly relaxed.

Finally the captain stormed in, with a rather subdued Tom Paris on her heels and stepped onto the transporter platform immediately.

"Stadi is going to make it," she told her crewmen while picking up a rifle from Tuvok. "Let's go, gentlemen!"

The others followed her example. Tom felt the familiar tingle of the transporter beam, and seconds later he rematerialized on the hard surface of the Array. It was composed of some strange alloy that no Federation database could identify.

They had chosen the same coordinates that the board computer had stored as the location of their first, involuntary visit, and yet it seemed now as if they had ended up on a completely different place. Gone was the idyllic, earth-like landscape – the "waiting room", as Tuvok called it. Now they stood in a cavernous room of the same light grey alloy as the Array's surface, yet here it was not shiny but dull, almost white.

The only piece of furniture was a long, angular console that looked like a slab of white stone, in the middle of the circular room. The walls were lined with huge viewscreens, all of which showed nothing but empty space, as if they were some blind windows to an alien cosmos.

The ever-efficient Tuvok got out his tricorder and moved slowly around, in widening circles, scanning for their missing crewmen. The alloy didn't seem to interfere with the little device.

"There are no humanoid life-forms indicated, Captain," he reported after a while, closing the tricorder and pocketing it again. "Ensign Kim and Miss Torres are not within tricorder range. They may not even be on the Array."

"Didn't you find anything useful at all?" Janeway asked, her frustration clearly showing. "What about this room?"

"This has to be the control room of the whole Array," the Vulcan replied without hesitation. Paris gave him an unbelieving look.

"This empty cavern?"

"It might look empty," Tuvok admitted; "however, according to my readings, it is not. The equipment that is undoubtedly all around us, must be holographically screened. We will not see it, unless the entity in charge allows it."

"That is absolutely correct," and oddly disembodied voice said, and as if stepping from behind an invisible curtain, a vaguely humanoid figure appeared at the farther end of the control panel.

The entity might have been seven or eight feet tall – it was hard to tell. It went through subtle changes all the time, flickering in and out of solid form. In fact, it looked like a human-shaped hole in the fabric of space, filled with liquid light. Its luminosity changed from a bare, dim flicker to the equivalent of a bright golden flame and back again; and it seemed to have six appendages attached to its upper body and two more on the lover part of its torso, serving as legs.

"What do you want here?" it asked, laying one of its upper limbs on the surface of the control panel. It ceased mimicking a roughly-hewn stone immediately. Multi-coloured displays flickered to life, diagrams and complex, aesthetically beautiful symbols that might have been numbers or letters. But for the eyes of the humans and the Vulcan everything seemed strangely… wrong, out of focus, out of balance – the colours just a little too bright, the patterns of their flickering just slightly arhythmycal…

"You have no business being here," it added, and only when he saw the Vulcan wince in pain did Chakotay realize that he had not really heard the entity's _voice_. He had heard its _thoughts_. It was nauseating enough for a mere human, being violated this way; he could imagine what the Vulcan must feel.

Not that Chakotay would feel sorry for the spy. The Vulcan deserved to suffer; to learn that his special mental abilities weren't _always_ an advantage. To meet someone who was stronger and even less scrupulous.

Still, violating someone's mind was something that Chakotay found utterly repulsive. Even if the victim was his enemy. So he took a step towards the oddly elusive entity and glared at its "face", where the eyes should be by a humanoid being, in cold fury.

"We have no business here?" he repeated in a low, dangerously calm voice. "I see that differently. You've made this our business by bringing us here in the first place."

"I have no need of you any longer," the mental voice answered, dismissing him like an obnoxious child. "You don't have what I need."

Janeway put her hands on her hips, her eyes blazing. A thin and seemingly fragile woman she might be, but she also could be thoroughly intimidating when she put her mind to it. And now she was making her best effort.

"I don't know what you need," she replied angrily, "and frankly, I don't care. I just want our people back, and I want us all to be sent home."

_So much for a diplomatic approach_, Tom thought sarcastically, though he also could understand Janeway's anger. He didn't like others manipulating his life either.

"Well, well…" that mental voice grew coldly amused. "Aren't you a little contentious for a minor bipedal species?"

"This minor bipedal species," Janeway answered with equal coldness, "doesn't take kindly to being abducted."

Her words obviously had no impact. The entity seemed to lose solidity; even its mental voice had been reduced to a distant murmur in their minds. "It was necessary."

Returning to the displays, it touched a few other control surfaces, creating a distinct chirping sound like a melody containing a long row of asymmetric three-tact sequences. Tom wondered if that was its spoken language and wished the Fleet still had communications officers like it used to in the previous centuries. The universal translator had yielded within seconds – the language was too alien for it to match. Tom also suspected, that – just like with the symbols and colours on the displays – his senses weren't quite able to perceive the whole range of those sounds. But an expert like Hoshi Sato or Nyota Uhura, Starfleet's most famous practical linguists, might have succeeded where technology failed.

As the Maquis leader moved forward, Tom was getting nervous. The solid form of the big man positively radiated anger. Tom had never truly seen Chakotay in rage, but according to the other Maquis, it was not a pretty sight.

"Where. Are. Our. People?" Chakotay asked with the deceiving calmness that could only be experienced before the immediate outburst of a particularly violent storm. The entity, however, was not impressed.

"They are not here," it replied with the infuriating self-confidence of someone who knew perfectly well that they couldn't harm him any more than a few ants could harm an Allurian mammoth.

"What have you done to them?" Janeway snapped, but the entity's attention was drifting out of focus again, turning completely towards its displays.

"You don't have what I need," its mental voice was now barely more than an absent-minded murmur. "They might. You'll have to leave them."

Chakotay shook his head, grim determination written in his hardening features. "We won't do that."

"You don't have a choice in this matter," the entity replied in the same, distracted manner. "They are needed elsewhere."

Janeway grabbed Chakotay's arm with what she thought to be a soothing gesture. Tom grinned involuntarily as he saw the big Maquis stiffen – Chakotay disliked being pawed almost as much as a Vulcan.

"Please, reconsider," Janeway said trying to address the entity's better side, assuming it _had_ one in the first place, while holding Chakotay back before he could do or say anything stupid. "We are their commanding officers. We are entrusted with their safety. They are our responsibility. That may be a concept that you can't understand…"

_Yeah, great_, Tom secretly rolled his eyes at this brilliantly diplomatic approach. _Just make Lightbulb nice and mad, both of you. That would certainly inspire it to give us back Harry and Torres and send us home!_

To his relief, the only reaction they got was a dry mental chuckle.

"Oh, no," the entity replied, solidifying a little, while all his arms were still working tirelessly on that peculiar control panel, "I do understand, better than you might think. But I have no choice. There's so little time left…"

It drifted off again, out of both focus and solidity. But Janeway was losing her patience with its incoherent mental ramblings rapidly.

"Left for _what_?" she snapped, fighting the urge to grab the entity and shake it hard enough to rattle its teeth – assuming it _had_ teeth, of course. It was hard to tell with someone whose form was teetering on the edge between solid and liquid.

The entity kept working on its console. The movements of its six upper appendages were like nothing that Tom had seen before, and he had seen his share of unusual aliens. Those limbs bent at any possible place, as if it had been made of a substance akin to quicksilver. They practically poured across the controls.

"I must honour the debt that could never be repaid," the mental voice came from afar, as if the entity were continuing some inner monologue that had been going on for too long. "But my search has not gone well."

"Tell us what you are looking for," Janeway insisted, in the desperate hope that she might talk the entity into cooperation yet. "Perhaps we can help you find it."

The mental laughter that answered her suggestion was cold and full of contempt. It was like a slap into their faces, dealt by someone with a power so superior to their own that they couldn't even imagine it.

"_You_?" the entity repeated with what could only be described as the mental equivalent of a derisive snort. "I have searched the galaxy for five hundred local cycles, with methods beyond your comprehension. There is nothing _you_ can do." Its attention switched back to the displays, and it added in its earlier, absent manner. "You're free to go. If your people turn out to be as useless for my purpose as the rest of you, I'll send them back."

"That's not good enough!" Chakotay growled angrily. "They are sentient beings. You can't use them for your… experiments."

"I can and I will," the entity replied without remorse. "That might not seem very ethical to you, but at times we have no choice. This _is_ one of those times, and I can't be hindered by ethical considerations when so much more is at stake."

"It seems that you won't let yourself be bothered by ethics at _all_," Janeway said, her voice icy. "You've taken us seventy thousand light years from our homes. We have no way back unless you send us – and we won't leave without the others."

"I can't send you back," the entity answered, its attention focused almost entirely on its displays. "It would be too complicated… and my resources are needed for more important tasks. I don't have the time to deal with your petty problems… not enough _time_…"

One of its appendages sneaked out and touched a previously neglected control surface. For a moment, everything went dark – then the away team found themselves on _Voyager_'s bridge again.

* * *

"That went well," Tom commented sarcastically – a little louder than he had actually meant.

Janeway shot him an irritated look. "It's not over yet. Mr. Paris.

Tom raised a pointedly skeptical eyebrow. It was a very good parody of the customary Vulcan gesture, and he could see Greg Ayala grin behind Chakotay's back, though the burly Maquis tried to hide his amusement.

"Is it not?" he asked with false innocence. "Harry and Torres are obviously not on that Array. They could be anywhere in this sector. So, how do you intend to find them… _Captain_?"

He knew he was pushing his luck, and he didn't really understand why in seven hells did he taunt her, but some silly, childish part of him wouldn't leave her alone. Chief Mendon had been right. His attitude would get him in great trouble again. If the dark looks that the bridge crew was giving him were any indication, it had already started.

Memories of the friendly Benzite – the only person on board aside from Stadi who had treated him as a human being – overwhelmed him all of a sudden, so that he didn't even listen to the spontaneously arising debate about how the y might still find their missing people. Before beaming over to the Array, he hadn't been able to catch a glimpse of the little fishheads, he had been so worried about Stadi. Poor things, how would they be able to grow up without their father?

He shook his head in sorrow. It had been hard to have a father like the Admiral, but having no father at all, and with their mother seventy thousand light years away, the Benzite babies had it a lot worse.

Janeway, not knowing what might be going on in his head, interpreted his gesture as a sign of protest.

"You see it differently, Mr. Paris?" she asked sweetly.

Tom shook his head again. "No, Ma'am. Whatever you are planning, I'm in."

"Assuming I _want_ you with us," Janeway replied. Tom shrugged.

"You might need a field medic. I'm the only one available."

"On _this_ ship perhaps," Chakotay said. "We, too, have a trained medic on the _Crazy Horse_. We can take her with us instead. At least her I can trust."

"Do what you have to, Chakotay," Tom answered tiredly. "With your permission, Captain, I'd like to go down to sickbay now. At least I can be useful to T'Prena. And Vulcans don't suffer from paranoia."

"You shouldn't believe the whole Vulcan mythos, Paris," said Ayala slowly. "After all, the guys aren't supposed to lie, either…"

Janeway's jaw tightened for a moment, but she displayed remarkable self-restraint. "Permission granted, Mr. Paris."

Tom turned to leave, but right at the door he turned back for a moment.

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry, Greg," he said to Ayala. "_This_ was not what I have planned."

Ayala nodded slowly, almost reverently, his obsidian eyes unreadable. "Wasn't your fault, Paris."

But the fact that he didn't call Tom by his first name as had always been his wont, delivered the rest of the message unmistakably, _This time_.

Tom nodded, expecting the inevitable with a bitter aftertaste and left.

* * *

Barely had the door closed behind Tom when Ensign Baytart, Stadi's replacement, looked up from his console.

"Captain, the Maquis ship is hailing us."

"And the call is coming through _your_ console, instead of through Ops?" Janeway asked a little bewildered. Baytart shrugged.

"All systems are acting crazy, or so Lt. Carey has reported."

"All right, Ensign, put them through."

Baytart touched a few controls, and the gentle face of a young, blonde Bajoran woman appeared on the big screen.

"This is Sito Jaxa from the _Crazy Horse_," she said in a soft voice that matched her face. "May I speak with my captain, please?"

Without waiting for Janeway's permission, Chakotay stepped into the imaging focus of _Voyager_'s comm system.

"What's up?" he asked in the clipped tone of an experienced officer, used to giving orders and being obeyed.

"We have a problem, sir," she answered in the same practical, officer-like manner. "Two problems, actually. Gerron and Tamal. Their condition took a sudden turn for the worse. And I just don't have here the necessary equipment to treat them."

"I see," Chakotay clenched his fist. "Suggestions?"

"That's a newly built Fleet ship over there, sir," the Bajoran said. "_They_ would have the means to save our people."

"And then throw them in the brig," Chakotay replied darkly. The Bajoran nodded in understanding.

"I know that we might not free them again, once they are healed. But sir, if we don't take the risk, they'll die. Tamal certainly; and Gerron's chances are slim, too."

"And there's absolutely nothing you can do for them?"

"Other than hold their hands and watch them die? Nothing, sir." She paused, her eyes haunted; then she spoke again, but now she was addressing the other captain. "Captain Janeway, may I have a word with you?"

Janeway blinked in surprise. "Certainly, go on."

"Captain, I used to be a Starfleet officer. An eager one and not a bad one, according to Captain Picard anyway. I know the ideals of the Fleet – and I know what little politics leave intact of those ideals. You told Chakotay that we should set our differences aside while in the Delta Quadrant. For my dying friends' sake, I'd be willing to do that. Are _you_ willing to give me your word as a Starfleet officer that you'd let them go again?"

The true question behind those polite words was clear enough. _Can you be trusted, Captain?_ Unlike her leader, the young Bajoran was obviously willing to give a Fleet captain the benefit of doubt. Despite the fact that this very captain was the one who had placed a spy among them and been sent out to hunt them down. Janeway was impressed.

"I give you my word that your people will be treated to the best of our abilities," she said, "and that they may go free, once healed. But let me also tell you that our doctor is dead. All we have is an emergency medical hologram and a Vulcan nurse."

"The EMH is offline," Rollins informed his captain. "Its system got affected by the board-wide problems."

"Oh, great! Just what we needed! Now all we have is the nurse."

"But you do have the equipment and the medical supplies," Sito said. "All _I have_ is a medkit, and that, too, is almost empty."

"You are welcome to beam over with your patients, of course," Janeway nodded; then, turning to Chakotay, she added. "Commander, we should continue our discussion in my ready room. I'm not willing to give up on our abducted people just yet."

After a moment of hesitation, Chakotay nodded.

"Ayala, go down to sickbay and check on Tamal and Gerry," he ordered. "After that, beam back to the _Crazy Horse_ and take command while I'm here. Seska is good during emergencies, but a little too trigger-happy."

Ayala nodded. In fact, he was glad to have the chance to talk to Paris in private. "Will do, Cap."

* * *

T'Prena looked up from her monitors in surprise when she saw Thomas Paris walk into the doctor's office.

"You are remarkably efficient for a human, Mr. Paris. I have only sent my request to the captain's terminal 12.3 standard minutes ago, and you are already here. This is rather unusual."

The human, too, seemed surprised.

"I'm not sure I understand what you mean," he admitted.

T'Prena raised an eyebrow. "Have you not been sent here by Captain Janeway, granting my request to assign you to sickbay as temporary medic?"

"Afraid not. I doubt that the captain had the time yet to read your request at all. I've come to check on Stadi and the little Benzites."

"I see," T'Prena knew that disappointment was counterproductive and illogical, yet she could not help feeling so.

"But," Paris added unexpectedly, "I'll be glad to help, wherever I can. It's not as if I had anything else to do on this big and shiny ship."

The human's emotions were intense and close to the surface, but T'Prena blocked them easily. Used to the short temper of Dr. Fitzgerald, it was relatively easy.

"Very well," she said, "you may start with the babies. They need to be turned onto their other side. And check the feeding and breathing tubes, please."

That was more than all right with Tom. What's more, it was something he was actually qualified to do. With great care he turned the little fishheads onto their other side, almost afraid to touch them. They were still so tiny that he could have held all four in one palm, and his hands were more used to handling the heavy tools of the motor fleet repair bay in Auckland. He hoped he'd still be able to deal with a control panel, should he ever get the chance to fly again.

"Nurse," he asked quietly, "may I use one of your computers? I'd like to check out what the database has on Benzite physiology."

"Certainly," the Vulcan nodded. "I would suggest Dr. Ransom's study, that is the most detailed source about the species. You will find it in the Xenology Section of the Virtual Library of Starfleet Sciences."

Tom thanked her, and in the next few minutes – while his respect for the aforementioned Dr. Ransom, now apparently the captain of the USS _Equinox_ and missing with his ship and some 80 crew, steadily grew – he learned the most extraordinary things about Benzites. Among others the little detail that gender specifications didn't develop until they reached the age of the equivalent of a six-year-old human child. And that they learned to swim and sing before they learned to walk and speak.

_That_ gave him a lot to think about. Obviously, the babies will need a specific environment, as soon as they left the incubator units. Maybe a basin in one of the empty quarters or the cargo bays will do the trick. But how are they going to learn to speak? Would their ability to hear develop without the native sounds of their own species at all?

Getting an idea, Tom quickly searched the musical database of _Voyager_. As expected, it didn't contain any Benzite melodies – Benzar being a non-Federation world that had been rather unlikely. But it had several files of the songs of Terran whales, filtered through deep water and underpainted with the murmurs of the sea. It was incredibly soothing, even for a human, and Tom assumed the little fishheads would like it, too. He asked for those files to be played inside the incubator units, at the lowest possible volume that the babies could still perceive.

T'Prena's Vulcan ears, of course, still heard it. She walked over to Tom and gave him a questioning look and the perfect Vulcan eyebrow. Tom explained shortly his ideas. And the nurse nodded in agreement.

"Excellent thoughts, Mr. Paris. In fact, I will ask the captain's permission to turn one of the smaller cargo bays into a nursery. Until then, we will have to spray them regularly, so that their skin will not dry out." She paused, her eyed darkening with concern. "I wish we could do something for Lieutenant Stadi just so easily."

"Does she know…?"

"Negative. She was conscious for a short time and asked about her eyes. But she fell asleep again, right after that. She had no time to ask about her spine."

Tom sighed. "Better for her to hope a little longer. She'll have to live with the ugly truth long enough. Is there nothing the Doc could do for her?"

"There is not much the EMH could do for _anyone_, currently," T'Prena replied and explained in her usual short, logical manner the nature of the problem. Tom sighed again.

"I see. Is that why you want me to work here?"

"Not only you, though at the moment you are certainly the best-qualified crewmember. However, I intend to start a course for other possible candidates, in order to train them as replacement nurses and medical technicians."

"So, you don't believe that we'd get home any time soon either?" Tom asked. The Vulcan gave him an unblinking look.

"You have been on the Array. You tell me."

"The entity threw us out like bothersome children," Tom admitted," and if you ask me, we can be grateful that it didn't do anything worse. It plays _way_ above our league – and if it wouldn't be dangerous to make guesses about an alien so vastly different from us, I'd say it was a little mad, too. Or at least obsessed with some peculiar task that didn't seem to go too well."

"That could be dangerous indeed," the Vulcan agreed. "If all the alien is interested in is a particular task…"

The chirping of the comm system interrupted her. "Bridge to sickbay."

She turned to the nearest comm unit, "T'Prena."

"Be prepared to accept two patients in serious condition," Janeway's voice said. "We'll be beaming them over from the Maquis ship, directly to sickbay, together with their medic."

"Acknowledged," T'Prena walked over to the examination room. "Everything is ready here."

"Good," Janeway's voice became somewhat muffled, as she probably turned away from her comm unit. "Energize, Mr. Rollins."

"Aye, Captain," the voice of the bridge officer answered, and the golden shimmer of the transporter beam solidified into two motionless shapes on the prepared biobeds and a third one standing between them.

"The patients have arrived, Captain," T'Prena reported. "I will send the details to your terminal as soon as we have run a few tests."

"Good. Keep me informed. Janeway out."

The connection was broken, and T'Prena turned to her attention to the blonde Bajoran, clad in the usual rough garb of Maquis fighters – obviously their medic.

"I am Nurse T'Prena, currently in charge of _Voyager_'s sickbay. Can you provide me with any details considering the status of your patients?"

But the young woman didn't listen to her. She was staring at Tom in stunned disbelief, her mouth literally hanging open.

"Nick?" she asked hesitatingly. "Is that really you?"

Tom felt his chest tighten. _Here it comes_, he thought in resignation. _My past has finally caught up with me. Completely._ Of course he recognized her. Jean had kept the holopictures of the Nova Squadron in her room all the time.

"I'm very sorry, Sito," he answered quietly, "but Nick is dead. He took his own life, a year after he was thrown out of the Academy. You are the only one of the Nova Squadron who's still alive."

"What about Crusher?" Sito asked tonelessly.

"Has been missing with the _Equinox_ for some weeks now," Tom replied. "And you probably know what happened to Jean."

"I've heard of Caldik Prime, shortly after the Maquis freed me," Sito said. "And so you are…"

"I'm the one who killed her," Tom answered simply. "Her and Oriana and Jake. All three of them."

Sito's eyes narrowed with realization, "You are Tom Paris…"

"Yeah," Tom nodded with a bitter smile. "The liar. The pariah. Everyone's favourite traitor."

"Try not to feel so sorry for yourself," Sito said dryly. "After all, you are at least alive. But how come you look so much like Nick?"

"He never told you?" Sito shook her head. "Well, I can't blame him for not wanting to be connected to the oh-so-mighty Paris clan. But we are… _were_ first cousins. His mother was – well, she still _is_ – a Paris. My aunt Vanessa."

For a moment Sito watched his face in amazement. Then she shook off the whole thing and turned to the Vulcan.

"Nurse, I have here a human patient in his early thirties with six broken ribs, a punctured lung, a spinal injury and severe inner bleedings. _And_ a Bajoran one, age nineteen, at least in standard, with a head trauma, a concussion and probably a crushed liver. My instruments aren't even capable of a decent diagnosis."

"Fortunately, the biobeds are still working at one hundred per cent efficiency," T'Prena answered. "Assist me while I stabilize your human patient. In the meantime Mr. Paris can prepare your fellow Bajoran for treatment."

Tom braced himself for a heated rejection. Why should Sito entrust him with the care of this young boy? If anyone, _Sito_ had every reason to hate him. But to his surprise, the Bajoran simply nodded.

"Jean had sent me messages, even after the Academy," she said, looking at him over her shoulder. "I think we should talk – after our work here is done."

Tom nodded, grateful that she was willing to hear his side of the story, and yet dreading the memories that telling it would doubtlessly trigger again.

"Whenever you want, he answered quietly, and called for the diagnostic arch to be raised over the battered body of the young Bajoran.

TBC


	15. Chapter 12: The Search

**THE LOST VOYAGES**

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

**CARETAKER **

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** PG, for this part.

**Author's note:** I'm not going to repeat Torres and Kim's experiences in the Ocampa city. I simply assume that they pretty much happened according to canon and concentrate on the efforts to find them. And yes, some lines of dialogue are still quoted from the episode.

Beta read by Brigid, whom I owe my sincerest thanks.

**CHAPTER TWELVE: THE SEARCH **

Janeway, Chakotay and Tuvok were sitting in her ready room – she behind her circular desk as was her wont, the two men on the opposite side of it, keeping a wary distance and avoiding each other's looks. Chakotay's eyes were cold and full of mistrust, Tuvok's interest directed solely at his captain. Janeway suppressed a sigh. Cooperation, it seemed, would _not_ be easy, not even for the sake of their missing people.

"Well, gentlemen," she said, "I believe that our common goal is still to find our abducted crewmembers. And our best chance is still to work together. I for my part am not willing to give up on them just yet."

"Neither am I," Chakotay replied. "But frankly, I'm at a loss about where we should look for them."

"I might be of some assistance there," Janeway offered. "We've traced the energy pulses from the Array to the fifth planet of the neighbouring system."

"Do you believe they may have been used in some fashion to transport our people to that planet?" Chakotay asked doubtfully. "Wouldn't that be a risky method to transport such complex organisms as a living humanoid body? The energy flow is fluctuating."

"Risky for us perhaps," Tuvok said, "but the alien on the Array has a technology that is clearly superior to ours."

Chakotay ignored his remark as if he hadn't heard it. The Maquis leader addressed his words to Janeway alone, as if there were no third person in the ready room at all. "Is it your plan to go to that planet and search for our missing people, Captain?" he asked.

Janeway nodded. "That is the only chance I can see now."

"I quite agree," Tuvok added. "It seems to me that there is a connection between the alien and that planet. Clearly, the Array provides something – or someone – on the planet's surface with energy. And comparing the current readings with those before our visit to the Array, I have observed something peculiar about the energy pulses. They are getting faster."

Janeway straightened in her seat. "Faster?"

Tuvok dipped a single nod. "The interval between each pulse has decreased by point-four-seven seconds since we arrived. I can offer no explanation."

_Of course not_, Chakotay thought in dark amusement, _that would require a little creativity – and a great deal of imagination_. But out loud he only said, "Captain, perhaps it would be a good idea to do a thorough analysis of the planet in question. Its characteristics might give us a clue about what the alien is doing there and what he could need our people for."

"The thought has occurred to me as well," Janeway turned her monitor to the two men, showing them the planetary diagram spinning slowly on the screen, the energy flashes of the Array reduced by equation to little more than a series of short lines passing between its spidery outlines and the planet surface. She reached up to tap the planet's statistics. "Look at this!"

"It's virtually a desert," Chakotay realized, "the whole planet! No ocean, not one river!" He sat back again, shaking his head in disbelief. Janeway nodded.

"Strange, isn't it? It has all the basic characteristics of an M-class planet, except…" She chose a particular string of figures out of the planet's description and magnified it to fill nearly half the screen. "… there are no nucleogenic particles in the atmosphere."

"That's impossible," Chakotay said. "That would mean the planet is incapable of producing clouds and rain – which simply can't be if it's an M-class planet."

Janeway nodded again. "I know. I studied thousands of M-class planets as the science officer of the _Al-Batani_, but I've _never_ seen an atmosphere without nucleogenics."

"There isn't such a thing," Chakotay emphasized, "not as a result of natural planetary development anyway. There must have been some kind of extraordinary environmental disaster."

Janeway hid an exhausted yawn behind her palm. "I know. According to your file, you have attended advanced palaeontology classes, Com… Captain. Do you believe that there still can be life on that planet?"

"Hard to tell," Chakotay answered thoughtfully. "Had the disaster hit an already advanced civilization, they might have been able to find ways to survive – like moving under the surface, for example. In fact, they may have some contact with the alien on the Array to that end. But I'm afraid we won't know for sure, unless we go there and look for ourselves."

"Which is exactly what we are going to do," Janeway yawned again, both physically and emotionally drained by the recent events. "As soon as repairs are complete we'll set a course for the fifth planet. You're coming with us, I presume?"

"We never leave one of our own behind," Chakotay replied curtly.

"I take that as a 'yes'," Janeway said. "I'll inform you when we are ready to go – assuming you will be in any shape to follow us."

"We are used to going ahead in _any_ shape we happen to be in," Chakotay rose. "I'll have to return to my ship now and see that we get our repairs done in time."

"Do you need any help?" Janeway offered automatically. Even if these were the Maquis, the very same people she had been sent to hunt down, they were also Federation citizens… well, at least they had been, not that long ago. Old habits died hard.

"Thank you, Captain, but that's not necessary," at least the Maquis was polite in his refusal. "My people are more than capable of handling the ship. They are used to it."

"You forget that you have lost your chief engineer," Tuvok reminded him. "Without Miss Torres you are at a serious disadvantage. I would suggest…"

Chakotay spoke as if he hadn't heard the Vulcan… again.

"As I said, I have several good engineers who know my ship like the back of their hands," he said, still addressing his words to Janeway only. "I appreciate the sentiment, but you don't have to worry about us. We can manage on our own. Good day, Captain."

With that, he nodded and left. Janeway leaned back in her seat, sighing in exasperation.

"That went well," she remarked, unaware that she was repeating Paris' earlier comment.

* * *

When Gregor Ayala reached _Voyager_'s sickbay, he found Sito and the Vulcan nurse working frantically to keep Tamal alive, while Tom Paris was knitting Gerron's broken bones with a small, handheld device, the likes of which had served well in Federation medical facilities for a hundred years, at the very least. Ayala stepped up to the biobed and looked at the frighteningly pale face of the young Bajoran with fatherly concern.

"How's Gerry doing?" he asked. Recognizing his voice, Tom spared him a surprised glance. He hadn't expected Greg to come down here. Chakotay yes, the big Indian had always been something of a mother hen when one of his people was hurt, but Greg was usually more stoic.

"We've treated his head trauma and his concussion," Tom informed his old acquaintance. "It turned out that his collarbone and breastbone were nicked, too. I'm repairing them now. The real problem is his liver – it's badly damaged, and neither of us is qualified to operate on him. We'll have to put the kid into a stasis chamber until the EMH is back online."

"How long will that take?" Ayala asked. Gerron didn't look as if he'd last much longer without professional help.

Tom shrugged and switched off the bone-knitting device, having done for his patient all that was within his abilities. "That's the other problem. Nobody seems to have an idea what's wrong with the Doc or how to fix him."

It seemed a little strange, even to him, to talk about a hologram as if it was a real person, but it made it easier to address the problem nevertheless.

Ayala's mood darkened visibly. "Damn it! And he was doing so well… we were beginning to hope that he'd start speaking again, soon." At Tom's questioningly raised eyebrow, he added. "We freed him from a Cardassian prison camp. Need I tell you more?"

"Let me guess," Tom smiled bitterly. "He was young, unprotected and too pretty for his own good."

Ayala looked at him closely, detecting new, hard lines in his face that had not been there before, and a cold glint in those blue eyes that he had not known earlier, either. The confused young man, whom he had to push through a forced withdrawal, had grown up awfully quickly. And the results were not entirely pleasant.

"I thought you were in the secure wing of that enlightened Federation prison," he said quietly. Tom shrugged.

"Not from the beginning. I spent the first seven months among the common crowd. You want details?"

Ayala didn't answer immediately, just looked at him with those dark, unreadable eyes.

"I don't think that will be necessary," he finally said. "I think I understand some things better now. But I still have some questions I'd like to ask. Do you think we could talk some time, when things get a little more ordered?"

"Sure, why not?" Tom replied tiredly, asking himself just how many more of these _talks_ were still awaiting him. But he couldn't refuse Greg, of all people. Greg deserved to hear the whole truth.

He checked the readings of the biobed again, then turned to the nurse. "I'm done here, T'Prena; I' will put the kid into one of the stasis chambers. Is the site-to-site transport system still working reliably? It would be better than dragging him over manually."

"The Vulcan nodded. "Affirmative. Remember to make an entry in the medical log. Then come and assist us here. This patient still has broken ribs that need to be knitted."

"What are Tamal's chances?" Ayala asked. The face of the young cell leader was ash grey, his breathing practically nonexistent. But he had to be alive, at least, since the medics were still working on him.

"If you are referring to the patient I am currently treating, he has a chance of approximately 40.6 per cent to survive," the Vulcan didn't even look up from her work. "Assuming the engineers can correct the glitches in the EMH program. The patient needs a complicated operation that I cannot perform. His spinal injury is less serious than Lt. Stadi's, but if anyone but an experienced physician tried to fix it, he'd risk permanent paraplegia."

"He'd be paralysed," Sito explained quietly. Ayala sighed.

"What are you going to do then?"

"We've repaired his punctured lung and stopped the internal bleedings," T'Prena explained. "Mr. Paris will knit the broken ribs in a minute. After that we'll give the patient a series of infusions to replace the dangerous amount of blood he has lost, and then we will put him into a stasis chamber until the operation can be performed."

Ayala nodded. "Very well. Thank you, nurse. Sito, I have to return to our ship. Are you coming?"

"As soon as Gerry and Tamal are put in stasis. I need to look after the sick on board the _Crazy Horse_."

"You still have sick people over there?" Tom asked in surprise. "None of _us_ were harmed on the Array."

"Well, some of our people came back with strange growths on their wrists and forearms," Sito replied grimly. "They look like carcinomas, and yet they seem to be harmless. I'm trying to decide whether I should remove the things or not."

"I'd prefer to take a look if you do not mind," T'Prena said. "The biobeds might be able to diagnose those swellings… and in the case that other people got infected as well, we can start working on a cure."

"I'm afraid that must wait," Ayala interrupted. At the moment we need everyone for the repairs. I'm gone then. Thank you for all your efforts. And, Paris… take care," he added and left sickbay.

* * *

After Chakotay left, Janeway slumped in her seat, burying her face in her palms. Tuvok was the only person in the whole Galaxy in front of whom she felt free to show her exhaustion openly. The Vulcan was a logical being who didn't interpret the limitations of the human body as weakness – unlike Janeway herself. Unlike her own father, her commanding officers, even her mother and sister. She had always been expected to be the strong one. She would not tolerate any weakness in herself, either.

Tuvok, however, saw things differently.

"Captain, you require sleep," he pointed out logically when Janeway succumbed to another irresistible yawn. Janeway shook her head in defiance.

"I'm much too tired to sleep right now. "She stood, walked over to the replicator unit and ordered another coffee. Double strong, black, no sugar. That ought to keep her awake for a little longer. She had programmed her own blend into the unit right as soon as she had come aboard. It would cause a heart attack in a Klingon who had grown up on _raktajino_.

"Nevertheless, Captain, you should rest," Tuvok insisted with the stubbornness of both a security officer and an old friend. "Caffeine is no proper substitute for sleep."

Janeway rolled her eyes. Tuvok was a dear friend to her, and she trusted him unconditionally, but his patronizing manner got on her nerves sometimes. She didn't like being patronized. Not even by a Vulcan, twice her age.

"I know that, Tuvok. I'm an adult, remember?"

"I do," the Vulcan replied, unperturbed. "But I also remember that you have always had the tendency to push yourself too hard."

There was no use arguing about _that_ truth. They both knew that.

"I'll rest, soon," Janeway promised, more to put his mind at ease than really meaning it. "As soon as I've taken care of a few other things."

Tuvok's face remained blank as always, but Janeway could still feel his mild disapproval. During all those years they had served together, she'd learned to read many of those Vulcan nonexpressions fairly well.

"The crew will _not_ benefit from the leadership of an exhausted captain," Tuvok pressed, which was unusual for him – it showed that he was really concerned. Janeway couldn't help but smile a little. This was as close to being pampered by a Vulcan as psychologically possible.

"You are right. As usual." She glanced up to him, still smiling. "I've missed your counsel, Tuvok. And I'm glad to have you back."

He inclined his head in his customary, dignified manner. "And I am gratified that you came after me so I can offer it once again."

Janeway nodded, accepting the well-concealed gratitude for what it was. "You certainly can, particularly in the current situation. You have served under Chakotay for quite some time. You were his tactical officer, worked closely with him. I think it's safe to say that you've come to know him well enough by now. What do you think we can expect of him?"

"That is not easy to tell," the Vulcan replied thoughtfully. "Commander Chakotay is what humans would call a charismatic leader. An excellent tactician, able to induce extraordinary loyalty in his followers. I have met Vulcans in the Maquis who were completely devoted to his leadership."

"How does he manage to awake such loyalties in others?" Janeway asked. "He seems pretty gruff to me."

"Through the simple fact that he, too, is absolutely loyal to his people," Tuvok said. "It is said that he never left anyone behind to the mercy of the Cardassians. There are whispered stories about how he shot a fellow rebel once – the man was injured beyond help, and they had no working transporter to beam him aboard the raiders, but he would have lived a few days longer, long enough for the Cardassians to murder him by slow torture. Apparently, the commander killed him, instead of subjecting him to that fate. I have never found any hard proof for this, however, so it is possible that the whole thing is just a legend. One of the many surrounding the "Angry Warrior", as he is often called."

"Do we have any chance of working _with_ him rather than _against_ him?" Janeway asked doubtfully. Tuvok thought about that for a moment then nodded.

"I believe so. He is a reasonable man – for a human. But remember, Captain, he is also a very dangerous man. Men with a mission always are. He might work with you beyond your expectations, but his first priority will always be the cause and his second one his own people. Should he have to choose between them and us, he will always choose them. Regardless of the price."

"And _we_ are likely to be the ones who'd pay that price, aren't we?" Janeway asked. The Vulcan nodded solemnly.

"Unless we are cautious and keep an eye on him constantly, yes." He paused a little, then he changed the topic rather unexpectedly. "Captain, I did not have the opportunity to meet young Mr. Kim. What can you tell me about him?"

"Why are you asking?" Janeway was a little surprised. "You aren't usually that interested in junior officers."

"True," Tuvok admitted, "but, assuming we can find him, Mr. Kim is going to be the chief of operations – hardly a junior officer, despite his age. I prefer to know the people I have to work with on a daily basis."

"I see," Janeway's eyes darkened in sorrow. "His mother called me just after he left Earth… a delightful woman…" She blinked back her tears, hating these unexpected waves of sentimentality that hit her at the most inappropriate times, clouding her judgement. "Her only son… a late child, apparently, and a brilliant and eager one, too…" She swallowed again, forcing herself to speak more evenly. "He'd left his clarinet behind, and she wanted to know if she had time to send it… I had to tell her no." She glanced up at Tuvok and added as an explanation, "He played the clarinet in the Julliard Youth Symphony."

"An impressive achievement," the Vulcan commented. "I presume he will miss his instrument very much." _If we manage to find him_, the unspoken addition dangled between them. Janeway closed her eyes for a moment, fighting for control.

"I barely knew him," she admitted. "I never seem to have the chance to get to know any of them. I have to take more time to do that."

It was a promise she'd made to herself before this, on other ships, with other crews. One that she was never able to keep, and they both knew that.

"Well, Captain," Tuvok commented with that customary Vulcan honesty that bordered rudeness at times, "this might be your chance to make that work. Seventy years is a long time."

Janeway stared at him in shock. She had been so sure that if anyone, Tuvok shared her faith that they could get home just as quickly as they had been brought there. That they could find a method to get behind the alien's defences, if only Tuvok worked with her. The Vulcan's comment felt like a slap in her face.

"This is a fine crew," she said defensively, her legendary stubbornness kicking into high gear once again. "I've got to get them home!"

"Indeed, that must be your ultimate goal, Captain," Tuvok agreed; the emotional outburst of his commanding officer had absolutely no effect on him. "But you must also consider the possibility that – how do you humans say it? – that there might be no quick fix for this problem."

Janeway gave a frustrated sigh, but the statement was too correct to even try to fight it.

"I spoke to your family before I left," she said instead, after a rather long and awkward silence. Was she trying to motivate Tuvok to try harder? To support her belief that they would find a quick way home, soon? If she was, the attempt couldn't be more futile. The Vulcan showed no reaction whatsoever.

He simply asked, "Are they well?"

"Well," Janeway told him. "But worried about you."

The addition was clearly a mistake. Tuvok's face became closed in that eerie Vulcan manner. It was beyond definition, at least for the human brain, how a face that had been expressionless by default to begin with, could become "closed", but that was exactly what happened. As if imaginary shutters had been locked behind Tuvok's eyes, shutting her out. His voice, when he answered, took on that lecturing tone that he only used when insulted.

"That would not be an accurate perception, Captain. Vulcans do not 'worry'."

_Great, now I have screwed it up completely_, Janeway realized with resignation. After all those years, she was still able to put her foot in her mouth when Vulcans were concerned.

"They miss you," she offered awkwardly.

Tuvok seemed to relax a little. Obviously, this time she'd managed to find the proper expression. "As I do them," he admitted simply.

Janeway recalled the beautiful, elegant Vulcan woman, T'Pel, who not only was a renowned healer in the Forge, the most life-threatening desert region of Vulcan, but also a sculptor in her free time and mother of four grown children and Tuvok's bondmate during the last seven decades or so. She remembered the calmness of T'Pel's voice and the well-controlled loneliness in the Vulcan woman's dark eyes. The acceptance of whatever way Tuvok might choose, but also the longing to see him again.

"I'll get you back to them," Janeway blurted out without thinking. "That's a promise, Tuvok."

A promise that she probably won't be able to keep. But Tuvok had the courtesy to keep that remark unspoken. He nodded stoically, wished good night to her and returned to the bridge to oversee the repairs. As a Vulcan he could continue with very little sleep for a rather long time. It was a logical choice to leave him in charge.

* * *

When Chakotay beamed back to the _Crazy Horse_, the crew – or what was left of it – was already informed about the events aboard _Voyager_.

"Seska managed to tap into their comm system," Ayala explained, vacating the pilot's seat for him. "We can now follow everything that happens over there."

Chakotay signaled him to stay. "Record all internal communications," he ordered, "and especially if they establish contact with any outside source. We must work with them for the time being, but I don't trust them. And work on that transporter! I want to be able to beam our people out any time."

"Sito has just returned without them," Ayala reported. "They had to put Tamal and Gerry into stasis, until their EMH comes back online. And _that_ could take time. They have apparently no idea what's wrong with it."

"The more reason to find Torres, and quickly," Chakotay said. "If anyone, she would know what to do. What about the others? The ones who returned… affected from the Array?"

"They are not doing too well," Ayala replied grimly. "Sito is about to set up a temporary sick room in our cargo bay. There they can make smaller repairs, and she can keep an eye on them. But she says that sooner or later they should be transferred to _Voyager_. She can't treat them here and that Vulcan nurse seems competent. _And_ she is willing to help."

"I don't think I'll believe anything a Vulcan says again, for a very long time," Chakotay growled.

"I can understand that," Ayala nodded. "But she is a nurse. Perhaps the Hippocratic Oath is still valid, even in the Fleet. And we don't really have any choice, do we?"

"Not if we want to save our people, we don't," Chakotay sighed. "How many of them are infected?"

"Three, so far: Bendera. Chell and Yosa. It seems that their condition is not contagious – but it is spreading," Ayala gave his captain a worried look. "You should go down to the cargo bay, Cap, and encourage them a little. Kurt is taking things calmly enough, you know what he's like, but Yosa is frightened out of his mind, and Chell is in hysterics, of course."

"What a surprise," Chakotay commented dryly. "All right, Greg, keep things running here while I'm playing mother hen. Adapt our course to _Voyager_'s and monitor their communication. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Ayala simply nodded, and Chakotay began his adventurous trip to the small cargo bay of his ship. The turbolift – the only one they had – was offline, of course, so it took him a good twenty minutes to get there through the crawlways and ladders of the maintenance tubes.

The sight that greeted him was _not_ encouraging.

In the short time available, Sito had somehow managed to organize three mattresses and laid them onto the floor of the cargo bay. The patients, suffering from various grades of the same strange illness, were lying on these mattresses, covered with spare blankets that had obviously been lifted from the quarters of those who had not survived the transfer to the Delta Quadrant.

The big, good-natured Kurt Bendera, through shaking violently from cold shivers that ran through his solid frame in irregular intervals, still tried to work on a panel next to his impromptu bed. Yosa, a native of Tiburon(1), took refuge in his species' typical reaction to stress and illness: he had retreated into a near-catatonic state, slowing down his breathing practically to nonexistence, his wrinkled skin taking on a greyish colour. Only the occasional twitching of his large, bat-like ears showed that he was still alive.

Chell, however, made up for the silence of both of his comrades. The Bolian had always been an extremely jumpy person, with a rather low stress-tolerance level, and the forced inactivity was the worst possible thing for him. As a result, he was prattling like a waterfall. For a moment, Chakotay seriously asked himself if Chell actually breathed through his small ears, in order to speak without a break. Chakotay's respect for Sito had just reached new heights. Treating patients under these circumstances must have been a serious challenge, even in Maquis terms.

"How are they doing?" he asked Sito. The Bajoran shrugged and led him to Yosa's bed.

"See for yourself, sir," she answered, lifting the limp hand of the Tiburonian.

Chakotay stared with ill-concealed horror and some vague disgust at the thick knots of flesh distorting Yosa's hand and arm. Never had he seen such grotesque masses on anything – or anyone – still considered being alive. Sito laid back the unresisting hand onto Yosa's stomach and opened the neck of his shirt. There were even more of those thick, purplish swellings. Chakotay fought the violent urge to get sick ruthlessly.

"The others, too?" he asked in a low voice. Sito nodded, her young face tired. "And you have absolutely no idea what these… things might be?"

Sito shook her head. "We need a biobed, sir. We won't be able to help them here. If the swellings really are some kind of carcinomas, Federation technology can heal them. It would be a long and unpleasant therapy, as the knots are spreading _very_ quickly, but at least healing _would_ be possible."

"But not here?"

"No, sir."

"I see," Chakotay walked over to Bendera's bed and dropped to the floor next to his friend, sitting cross-legged on the naked deckplate. "So, Kurt. You heard her. What do you think?"

Bendera(2) looked worse than Chell and Yosa together, his wry face practically covered with the strange-looking swellings. His eyes were barely visible, like narrow slots in that horribly disfigured face.

"What can I say, Chak?" he answered with resignation. "You know that I'd do almost everything to escape prison, but… look at me. I'm rotting alive. I'm not afraid of death, but dying like this – of _that_ I _am_ afraid, Captain."

"Are you willing to take the risk and beam over to them?" Chakotay asked seriously.

After a little hesitation Bendera nodded. "I'd give it a try, yeah. Gerry and Tamal are over there already. All you'd have to do is to keep a transporter lock on a few more people…"

Chakotay sighed again, willing Chell's nervous chatter in the background out of his conscious mind. "All right then. I'll call them. We have no other choice." He patted his friend on the shoulder and stood. "Sito, are you willing to beam over again with them?"

"Of course, sir. I could be of more use over there."

"Good. Let's hope that Captain Janeway is still feeling cooperative. I'll go back to the bridge and clear that. Prepare Yosa for the transport."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

T'Prena was as surprised as a Vulcan could be at all when the captain instructed her to prepare sickbay to accept three more patients from the Maquis ship. She called for Mr. Paris who had allowed himself a little rest, and to his credit, the human arrived in less than ten minutes.

"So, they have decided to deliver their people into our hands, after all," he remarked dryly. "They must be truly desperate."

T'Prena raised a disapproving eyebrow – joking over the condition of patients was not something that she would find acceptable. But even Paris didn't feel like joking when he saw the horrible state of the three Maquis.

"Holy shit," he murmured in shock, "what happened to them?"

"They were returned in this condition from our friendly neighbour, the alien on the Array," Sito replied. "At first the knots were few and barely visible, but they are spreading at an alarming rate. Yosa's luck is that Tiburonians can hibernate – that slows down the process considerably."

"Then let us begin with the human patient," T'Prena said. "You can assist me, while Mr. Paris runs a diagnostic on your hibernating crewmate _and_ prepares this Bolian gentleman for treatment."

"Paris?" Bendera looked at the person in question from barely visible eyeslits. "You'd allow _that_ one to touch any patients?"

Tom ignored the insult with practiced ease. Bendera had been one of Chakotay's crew on the _Thor's Hammer_ and had never made a secret out of his mistrust towards the Admiral's errant boy. T'Prena, however, was not buying any nonsense in the middle of a medical emergency.

"As the head nurse of _Voyager_ and currently responsible for sickbay, I have both the qualification _and_ sufficient authority to decide whom I allow to touch my patients," she replied dryly. "Mr. Paris is a trained medic – the only one we currently have – and he has proved to be both skilled and useful already. If you choose to refuse treatment, say so now, so that I would not waste my time and can move on to another patient. I am afraid, however, that _you_ do not have much time to waste."

Tom hid his grin with some effort. The wonderful Vulcan bluntness successfully shut Bendera up, so that the two women could start a thorough examination. Tom called for the diagnostic arch to be raised over the hibernating Tiburonian, started the automated diagnostic sequence, then walked over to the Bolian. The chubby, blue-skinned alien looked extremely nervous; in fact, he was as close to total panic as possible, but from all three patients, his condition seemed the best. It had to do something with his metabolism, Tom guessed. Bolians were extremely resilient. Unfortunately, they also tended to extreme paranoia and panicked easily.

"So," Tom said in what he hoped was a casual manner," let's start with the basics, Mr.… what was your name again?"

"Chell," the Bolian replied, his small eyes watching Tom's face suspiciously.

"Well, Mr. Chell, make yourself comfortable on the biobed and let me take a look at your insides."

TBC

**End notes:**

(1) Technically, Yosa was one of the many presumably human crewmembers in Engineering. I've made him a member of the same species as science officer T'Loor, an extra who got killed in the DS9 episode "The Ship".

(2) In the series Kurt Bendera was played by K Gruz. I "recast" him with Jay Avacone, the actor who played Kawalski in _Stargate – SG1_ because I wanted a more expressive face for the character.


	16. Chapter 13: The Search Continues

**THE LOST VOYAGES**

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

**CARETAKER **

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.

Beta read by Brigid, my sincerest thanks. All remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN: THE SEARCH CONTINUES **

Repairs aboard the _Crazy Horse_ were going frustratingly slowly in Torres' absence and with Yosa and Chell incapacitated. Chakotay had sent all bridge personnel to help the repair crews, so, aside from him, only Seska remained on the small bridge. The skilled Bajoran was capable of doing small repairs while monitoring the communications aboard _Voyager_. Chakotay instructed the computer to match the Starfleet ship's course; then he switched to autopilot to lay a hand on the damaged systems himself. Granted, he was no engineer, but he knew the basics well enough to fix small damage. It was still better than nothing.

About two hours later, the comm system started chirping again. Seska went to check.

"It's Sito, from _Voyager_'s sickbay, Chakotay. She has news!"

Chakotay crawled out from under his console and back into his seat. "What's up?"

"We were right, sir," the younger Bajoran reported. "It _is_ some weird sort of carcinoma."

"Weird in which sense?"

"Well, sir, for starters, under normal circumstances Bolians are _not_ susceptibe to this kind of illness. Nor does it normally spread this quickly in human patients."

"Were you able to determine what had caused the illness?"

"Aye, sir. And that's the weirdest part of all. They seem to have been infested with alien DNA, and a rather aggressive one, that causes irregular cell growth, not being compatible with their own DNA."

_You don't have what I need. They might_. The words of the alien echoed in Chakotay's mind. What could the obsessed entity be searching for? Were Bendera, Chell and Yosa dying as the result of some experiement that had gone wrong? Could Torres and that young Starfleet ensign be suffering from the same illness?

Questions, questions, questions…

"Is there any treatment you can try?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. We'll have to treat them on the cellular level, though, and extracting the alien DNA will have some unpleasant side effects like nausea and hair loss during therapy, but ultimately, they _can_ be healed. And the eventual loss of body hair would only be a problem for Kurt.

Chakotay smiled, despite his concerns. "Is the therapy safe?" he asked then.

Sito nodded. "T'Prena says it has been used successfully for decades. We'll have to make some modifications, of course. After all, how often do people get infected by alien DNA?"

"And you believe her?" Seska asked with a scowl. "You trust her just because she's a Vulcan? We've trusted a Vulcan before, and see what good it did us!"

"We have no other choice, Seska," Sito answered calmly. "I know it's not an easy thing to do, especially after how Suvuk… I mean, _Tuvok_ lied to us all, but I really don't see any other way to save our people."

"I'd rather take my chances," replied Seska stubbornly.

"You're not the one being eaten alive by alien DNA," Sito pointed out, her otherwise gentle eyes hardening. "Captain, I strongly suggest that we allow T'Prena to administer the treatment. I believe I understand what's to be done, and the therapy seems to cause little harm, compared to its results."

"Very well," Chakotay said after some thinking, "proceed. But I want to be informed about every new development."

"Of course, sir. I'll report to you every hour. Sito out."

Chakotay sighed and crawled back under his console. In the end, it all went down to the one important question: could he trust the Fleeters? Even here in the Delta Quadrant, seventy-thousand light-years from the place of their enmity, had it been a sound decision to deliver his people into their hands? Or had Seska been right, and they should have taken their chances?

He shook his head. No, he couldn't do that. Not to Kurt, who had saved his life in that bar on Telfas Prime. Not to Gerron, who had just begun to recover from the abuse he had suffered in that Cardassian prison. Not to quiet, unwaveringly loyal Yosa, whose engineering wizardry had helped Torres to keep the _Crazy Horse_ in one piece against impossible odds. Not even to Chell, whose irritating nature often made his fists itch. They were his troops – and they were desperately needed.

Granted, back in the DMZ the Maquis usually preferred death to prison. Especially to _Cardassian_ prison. But they weren't in the DMZ anymore, and they couldn't risk losing any more people if they wanted to keep their ship running. Besides, they were a family. An often dysfunctional family that sometimes needed the heavy hand of the cell leader to keep going, but still a family. For the most of them it was the only family they had left, after the Cardassians had murdered their loved ones.

The image of Ken Dalby's lovely, courageous wife came uninvited to his mind. They had barely a year together – and what a horrible way it was to lose someone! Chakotay had been Ken's best man, and he would never forget the happiness softening Ken's hard-bitten face when Kali had spoken her vows. After Kali had been murdered, for a while they all feared that Ken's spirits were broken for good. That he would die, too.

_Maybe he would have, had we not found Gerry_, Chakotay mused, fighting the circuits that stubbornly refused to let themselves be removed, due to the simple fact that they had melted into the console. The broken young man – Gerron had barely seen sixteen summers when they had found him – somehow made Dalby's protective instincts kick into high gear. Gerry had become the son that Ken had never had, gave Ken a reason to live again.

Chakotay only hoped that Gerron would make it. Otherwise they could lose Dalby, too. As hard as the man was – nobody could survive on a farming colony near the Cardassian border unless they were harder than granite – he would _not_ be able to take another personal loss of this magnitude. Of that Chakotay was absolutely certain.

Some piece of equipment gave a chirping noise again, somewhere above his head. From his weird perspective he could see Seska's legs approaching; the Bajoran apparently checked the sensors that monitored the route before them – then she whistled.

"Come up here, Chakotay, you oughtta see this…"

Chakotay suppressed a sigh of relief – he was actually grateful for the excuse to leave the burned circuitry to its own devices for a while – and emerged from the guts of his control panel to take a look at the viewscreen.

What he saw took his breath away for a moment. By all indication, he was staring at a starship cemetery. A vast scattering of ships, in various stages of decay, glittered and tumbled among what could only be called space debris: mustered-out satellites, or what was left of them, the shards of wrecked probes and only the Spirits knew what else. And among all that rubbish, a small vessel – barely more than a squat cylinder with some sort of a dish on top – was navigating carefully through the skeletal remains. It seemed intact although rather shabby.

"Is there someone still alive on that wreck?" Chakotay asked.

"There must be," Seska replied, checking both the sensors _and_ the comm channels of _Voyager_, "since it flies on its own. Only one lifesign, though. The Fleeters are about to call it. Do you want to eavesdrop?"

"You bet," Chakotay replied grimly. "I want to know _everything_ that goes on aboard that ship."

Seska nodded, switching a key on the control panel, tapping effectively into the comm system of _Voyager_ again and transferring the same image that had been shown on _Voyager_'s viewscreen to that of the _Crazy Horse_.

It was a sight that made Chakotay stifle an involuntary laughter, even though he had learned early in his career that one should not let oneself be misled by appearances. But the alien, whose face filled the screen – and who was obviously crawling on its hands and knees aboard the small vessel – looked like a hedgehog, decorated with multi-colored spots; and obviously in the state of extreme annoyance.

"Whoever you are, I found this waste zone first," he announced, apparently ready to fight for his finder's rights, regardless of the costs. As ridiculous as it seemed to challenge a ship like _Voyager_ from a barge the only cabin of which was not even tall enough for him to stand, he meant it seriously. Chakotay guessed that dealing in space waste must have been the little alien's only source of income. Small wonder that he seemed to protect his find, at any costs.

"We're not interested in this debris, Mister... " Janeway paused expectantly, and the alien seemed to take the hint.

"Neelix," he answered, not bothered by her patronizing tone at all. Then he gave her an honest grin. "And since you're not interested in my debris... Well, I'm delighted to know you."

Now it was Janeway's turn to take the hint, and she did so. With full Starfleet pomp, according to regulations, of course.

"Captain Kathryn Janeway," she introduced herself formally, "of the Federation Starship _Voyager_."

The formal announcement, sadly, had absolutely no effect on the little alien – aside from the general excitement over meeting new, friendly people, which almost had him bouncing up and down. He probably would have, had there been enough room on his tiny ship for such sportive activities.

"A very impressive title," he nodded with an earnest expression, although it was hard to tell if it was truly meant or simple mockery. "I have no idea what it means," he added cheerfully, "but it sounds very impressive."

Chakotay shot a look at Seska, who, too, had a hard time keeping her face straight. He'd have paid good money to see _Janeway's_ face in this moment. Her voice, when she answered the little alien, revealed nothing, of course. Starfleet trained its captains in diplomatic behaviour.

"Do you know this area of space well, Mr. Neelix?"

The spotted one put on a rather self-satisfied face – it reminded Chakotay of a cock in the middle of a great number of lovesick hens.

"I am famous for knowing it well," he exclaimed proudly. "How may I be of service?"

_That_ was a question Chakotay would have liked to be answered for himself. Janeway, however, approached her special goal carefully.

"Do you know anything about the Array that's sending energy pulses to the fifth planet of the neighbouring system? " she asked.

The alien – Neelix – blinked a few times, his cheerfulness dimming a little. "I know enough to stay as far away from it as possible." He blinked again, few more times; then it seemed that a thought occurred to him. "Wait. Let me guess. You were whisked away from somewhere else in the galaxy, and brought here against your will."

Chakotay and Seska exchanged surprised looks. Janeway's next question echoed their thoughts. "Sounds as though you've heard this story before."

"Sadly, yes," the little alien answered with an almost comical sigh. "Thousands of times." He blinked again and corrected himself. "Well, hundreds of – maybe fifty times." He shook his head and shrugged. "The Caretaker has been bringing ships here for months now."

"The Caretaker?" Janeway repeated. "You mean the alien on the Array?"

Neelix shrugged. "That's what the Ocampa call him."

"_Him_?" Seska mouthed, surprised that the entity apparently had a gender. After Chakotay and Ayala's short report about the Array she had not thought it would.

"Who are the Ocampa?" Janeway asked in the meantime.

"Oh, they live on the fifth planet," Neelix crawled a little closer to the comm system, and only now did Chakotay realize that the little alien wasn't lying on the floor by choice. Who the heck might have _originally_ built and piloted that tiny vessel? According to the scale on the rand of the viewscreen, Neelix was small enough himself – how small could his ship be and to whom might it have belonged _before_ him?

"Did he kidnap members of your crew?" Neelix asked in a compassionate manner. Janeway barked a short, bitter laughter.

"As a matter of fact, he did."

Neelix bobbed his head, the colourful plume of his slightly oversized head moving on its own like a fan. "It's not the first time."

Seska gave a partly disgusted, partly amused grunt, but Chakotay had had enough. It was time that he joined the discussion."

"Split screen," he ordered Seska. "Tie me into this debate."

The Bajoran nodded and put Janeway's image onto the left side of the split screen. Then she switched channels and nodded. "You can speak."

"Mr. Neelix," Chakotay said without preamble, "do you know where this… this _Caretaker_ might have taken our people?"

The expression on Janeway's face was priceless: surprise, irritation and finally cold fury. Neelix, however, answered as eagerly as if it were the most normal thing for third parties to jump into a conversation. Maybe for his own people it was, who could tell?

"I've only heard that they're sent to the Ocampa," he said. "Nothing more."

Janeway took a deep breath and ordered her Ops officer to split the screen on their side, too. Then she turned to Chakotay.

"If you don't mind my asking, Comm… _Captain_ – are you spying on us?"

Chakotay returned her icy look unblinkingly. "If you don't mind _my_ asking, Captain – when did you intend to share with me _this_ little piece of information?"

For a moment there was uncomfortable silence, as everyone knew that Chakotay's question had been more than justified. Janeway then turned her attention back to Neelix.

"Our scans showed no major settlements on the planet surface. Could you help us to find these Ocampa? We'd appreciate any help you could give us."

The little alien cocked his head in a strange, lizard-like manner, obviously not quite sure if he should give in to his curiosity or keep out of the whole thing and mind his own business. At the end, however, common sense overcame other considerations – or so it seemed.

"I-I-I really wish that I could help you," he sighed. "I-I do. But as you can see, there's just this... So much debris for me to investigate today." Leaning forward again, he added in a manner that reminded Chakotay uncomfortably of a Ferengi in the middle of a business negotiation. "You'd be surprised by the things of value some people abandon."

Janeway had gotten the hint, too. Chakotay could almost hear the good old Starfleet instincts – the methods drilled into future captains in command school – kicking into high gear.

"Of course, we'd want to compensate you for your trouble," she told the spotted one in her most charming manner. To Chakotay's surprise, she could actually emanate a considerable amount of charm if she decided to do so.

Neelix displayed a show of innocence that would have put Grand Nagus Zek to shame. Chakotay caught himself checking out the little alien's earlobes. Nah, his ears were still rather small. But his bargaining talent…

"And so the old Ferengi superstition proves to be wrong," Chakotay murmured under his breath, ignoring Seska's bewildered look. He would explain it to her later. Watching Neelix bargain with Janeway was actually very entertaining, and he didn't want to miss a moment of it.

"Well… there's really very little that you could offer me," the little alien assured Janeway in the manner of someone who was utterly content with his life. Seeing the environment in which he actually led said life made his otherwise spotless performance a lot less convincing, of course.

"Unless..." he added, trailing off speculatively, and Chakotay bit the inside of his cheek to stifle his laughter.

Janeway took the bait at once – she didn't really have any other choice.

"Unless…?" she prompted, a little impatiently now.

"Unless," Neelix repeated in the same nonchalantly speculative tone, "of course, you had..." he paused, trying to hide his desperate eagerness to seal the deal, "water?"

All of a sudden, it made great sense to Chakotay, remembering the barren desert that was the surface of the fifth planet. The Ocampa Neelix had mentioned earlier probably lived under the surface and had well-hidden water resources. But everyone else who visited this system had to bargain hard for their water. And Neelix' vessel didn't look as if he could make quick trips to the next available water source.

Which meant, in all likelihood, that the people of this area didn't have replicator technology. Why else would they be so desperate to locate natural water sources?

This thought made Chakotay realize the advantage that even his battered little ship had in this quadrant. So did Janeway, obviously – only that _her_ ship, once the repairs were finished, was far superior.

"If you help us find our missing crew members, you can have all the water you want," she offered.

For a moment Neelix lost his calm, dropping his jaw in dumb amazement like a fish out of water. To his credit, however, he gathered his wits quickly enough again.

"Tha-tha-that sounds like a…" for a moment he lost his lead again, eyes glassing over from the mere thought, then he hurriedly added, "a very reasonable arrangement."

_Reasonable, indeed_, Chakotay snorted inwardly, exchanging a darkly amused look with Seska who had been watching the scene with vague disgust. _You, my little friend, would sell your mother for that promise in a moment!_

Not that he would blame the little creature for being desperate. He of all people knew all too well that survival sometimes overran ethics. Glancing back to Janeway he could see that the Fleet captain was well aware of her advantage – and not particularly hesitant to use it. Which was fine with Chakotay. He saw no reason to consider Neelix' needs a higher priority than finding – and possibly saving – their own people.

"Good," Janeway said, sealing the bargain with a confident nod. "We'll beam you over and tow your ship into our shuttle bay. Mr. Tuvok, go to Transporter Room Two and meet our guest."

Actually, the order made a lot of sense. Towing in the little wreck, that is. It would not have survived the pull of a tractor beam in one piece. Neelix, however, seemed less than enthusiastic.

"Beam?" he squeaked nervously.

Chakotay exchanged another meaningful look with Seska and saw Janeway's eyebrow rise speculatively. Not only no replicators, but no transporter technology, either? That would give them, Starfleet and Maquis alike, further advantage. Assuming that Hogan, Tabor and the others managed to repair the _Crazy Horse_'s single transporter, of course. _And_ the replicators. Not to mention the Warp drive.

"We have a technology which can take you instantly from your ship to ours," Janeway was explaining to Neelix; then, seeing that the toad-like little creature was near to panic, she hurriedly added. "It's quite harmless, I assure you. May we?"

Neelix hesitated for one more moment, curiosity warring with fear on his face. Then he lifted his arms in acceptance and the golden beam of the transporter turned him into a whirl of sparkling atoms before ghosting him away completely.

Janeway turned to Chakotay with a forced smile. "I expect our… guest to be presentable in an hour or so, _Captain_. Would you care to join our debriefing? It wouldd be easier than monitoring our communications all the time."

This was as close to admitting defeat as she would ever come, Chakotay knew that. He allowed himself a thin smile of satisfaction. It looked surprisingly unpleasant on his friendly face, and Janeway realized with a jolt how right Tuvok had been when he called Chakotay "dangerous".

"It would be my pleasure, Captain," the Maquis leader replied. Janeway noticed that he didn't say anything about stopping the eavesdropping.

* * *

Fifty minutes later, after having called in the reports from his repair crews, Chakotay was ready to beam over to _Voyager_ again. This time he went alone, leaving Ayala in command. _And_ he went armed, even though he knew he wouldn't stand a chance, alone against the Vulcan's well-trained security detail, should Janeway suddenly decide to throw him into the brig. But old habits were hard to break, and he knew he'd be able to take out at least _some_ of the Fleeters before being overwhelmed.

He was met by a security lieutenant whose name was apparently Baxter (at least that was what the dark-skinned female transporter operator called him) and escorted to Janeway's ready room once more. She offered him a drink, and after a moment of hesitation he decided to take advantage of an actual, working replicator and accepted a cup of tea.

"We are in orbit of the fifth planet," Janeway told him conversationally, nursing her own steaming mug of coffee. "I've sent Tuvok to fetch our new guide from the guest quarters – assuming he can drag Mr. Neelix out of the bathtub."

"For someone who lives in a desert, having that much water available must be a delirious experience," Chakotay agreed, bathing his face in the aromatic vapours of his tea. "Not to mention the access to a food replicator…"

"Yours are broken, I presume?" Janeway asked.

Chakotay nodded.

"They had been broken already when we fled to the Badlands from Gul Evek… and there were other repairs, much higher on our 'to do' list."

Janeway winced in sympathy. "You've lived on emergency rations for how long? Weeks?"

"Less than a fortnight, actually," Chakotay shrugged. "That wasn't too bad, though. In the DMZ we usually had real food from one of the farming colonies, and in the Badlands, the repair stations kept their replicators in working order. It was the lack of medical supplies that caused us the most problems."

Their conversation was interrupted by a highly irritated Vulcan – if Tuvok's extraordinarily stiff demeanour was any indication – who shepherded the little alien into the ready room with the same enthusiasm with which he'd have cradled a toadlet of Rudolpha IV in his bare hands. Chakotay couldn't blame the Vulcan – Neelix seemed to extrude the same protective musk as those little amphibians, even _after_ a bath. Unfortunately, he didn't share the toadlet's shyness at all.

"Captain," he exclaimed exuberantly, "allow me to express my sincerest thanks for your hospitality! I must admit, I haven't had access to a food rebel... Uh, uh, uh, _replicator_ before."

If the almost painful expression on the Vulcan's usually blank face was any indication, Neelix must have made extensive use of the replicator… and probably caused a horrible mess in the guest quarters. Chakotay shuddered. Being a very fastidious person himself, he could only image what that mess had to be for a Vulcan. The whole race was anal retentive by design, and Janeway's chief of security was worse than most. Even on the _Crazy Horse_, his small cabin had been painfully clean and organized all the time.

"And to immerse myself in water!" the lumpy little alien enthused. "Oh, do you know what joy this is? No one around here wastes water in this manner. A good sand scrub... that's the best we can hope for."

"I'm glad that you have enjoyed yourself," Janeway answered diplomatically. "But we need your assistance now. As Mr. Tuvok has doubtlessly told you, we have reached the fifth planet and are ready to begin our search. Where should we look for our people?"

He could be wrong, of course, but it seemed to Chakotay as if, all of a sudden, Neelix had become very careful under his seemingly enthusiastic mask. There was a calculating glint in those small, bright eyes – a little too Ferengi-like for the Maquis leader's taste.

Neelix stepped closer to Janeway's desk and pointed with a stubby finger at the desktop monitor where the planet's image was slowly spinning before the dark background of space.

"If you scan the large southern continent," he said, "you'll find a range of extinct volcanoes. Follow the foothills north until you discover a dry riverbed. You'll find an encampment there."

Tuvok raised a sceptical eyebrow. "Do you believe our people might be at this location?"

"It's not impossible," Neelix replied brightly. "Maybe. Perhaps not." He smiled at Janeway convincingly, like someone used to the effect of his charms, and for one weird moment Chakotay considered the possibility that the little hedgehog might have been a heartbreaker among his own kind. One could never know, after all. "But we'll find them. We'll need several containers of water to bring for barter, though. "

Janeway nodded. "That can be arranged. Am I assuming rightly that you are willing to accompany us, Mr. Neelix?"

"Why, certainly!" Neelix exclaimed jovially. "You'll need my assistance, after all."

Which was exactly the fact that made Chakotay extremely wary about the upcoming negotiations. And seeing Janeway's doubtful look, he had the feeling that he was not alone with that feeling.

TBC


	17. Chapter 14: Tricked

**THE LOST VOYAGES**

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

**CARETAKER **

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.

**Author's note:** Writing this chapter was arduous work. I wanted to stay as true to canon as possible, while portraying the Kazon as a real people, unlike the caricatures they were in the series. Also, I never found Neelix' actions quite so harmless as they were handled in the series. Stealing water in a desert is a serious crime that can have dire consequences, for both the thief _and _the victims.****

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN: TRICKED**

The away team was chosen quickly. Janeway took Tuvok and two of his security people with her – and Paris, in case Kim and the Maquis engineer needed medical help. Chakotay only took Ayala, leaving Seska in charge of the _Crazy Horse_ once again.

They beamed down about a hundred meters from where – according to Neelix' description – the encampment had to be. It was like beaming directly into a furnace. There was nothing but sand as far as they could see. With the sustained drought, the very surface of the ground had been shrunken and cracked open in irregular intervals, creating an intricate pattern of hard-baked patches of soil and deep fissures that seemed to breathe even more heat. The visitors had to watch their steps or they would have been caught in one of those cracks.

They were standing in the dried-out bed of an ancient river. Miles away to left and to the right, the banks clearly indicated a vast floodplain. _Maybe there had been open fields once_, Chakotay thought sadly. His experienced eye, schooled on countless archeological digs during his Academy years, registered the broken structures beyond those ancient plains. They had the height and regularity of artificial structures, revealing clearly to anyone who could read the signs that once there had been cities. Spacious cities, inhabited by people with plans and great hopes, with a civilization and a culture that had apparently long returned to the dust from which it had once arisen.

The sight reminded Chakotay a little of the Egyptian desert, the sand swallowing the faded greatness of that ancient culture and to what it had turned for centuries after its fall. It was not until the last two hundred years that the restoration of all that which had remained of Ancient Egypt had begun, and Chakotay recalled clearly the documentary reports of the poverty and misery in which the descendants of this once great empire had lived for so long.

The rude tent camp in the middle of the hard-baked riverbed was not all that different from those old reports. The people around the tents were lean and wiry, with sun-darkened skin and thick, unruly, originally dark hair that had been bleached to the colour of dried clay by the merciless sun and patched together, probably with some sort of grease or clay itself, to a bizarre hairdo that looked like frozen flames but apparently provided a natural, protective helmet against the murderous rays of the unveiled sun. They wore several layers of rough, sand-blasted clothes to protect themselves as well as they could; their sunken faces and burning eyes told of a hard life full of struggle, hatred and deprivation. Most of them had disruptor-like weapons slung across their backs.

Beyond their camp a row of space-capable ships was waiting to be boarded. Obviously, these people were used to surviving in very harsh conditions, and – according to the number of the wounded among them – they were used to fighting as well.

Tom Paris, whose tastes were honed by his upper-class background, looked around in mild disgust. Despite all that he had gone through since the Admiral had disowned him he still couldn't completely suppress his instinctive reactions to dirt and poverty.

"Why would anyone want to live in a place like this?" he asked, mostly of himself. The deep thrumming that he could feel through his feet – most likely a result of the energy pulses sent from the Array – made him almost as jumpy as the sight of the savage natives. He could actually see the pulses, like quick flashes of light, flying high over his head and hitting the planet surface somewhere beyond them.

Neelix, however, had apparently never heard of rhetorical questions before.

"The rich cormaline deposits are very much in demand," he told Paris.

"The Ocampa use it for barter?" Chakotay asked with a frown. How could they be dependant on the alien on the Array if they had such excellent resources?

"Not the Ocampa!" Neelix looked at him as an unnerved pre-school teacher would look at a particularly stupid child. "The Kazon-Ogla."

"The Kazon-Ogla?" Janeway repeated in frustration. These new species popping up every five minutes made her head spin. "Who are the Kazon-Ogla?"

Neelix shrugged and waved impatiently toward the camp in the dry riverbed. "They are." With that, he started forward already, without waiting for them to follow. "The various Kazon sects control different part of this sector. Some have food. Some have ore. Some have water. They all trade and they all try to kill each other for it."

"Sound like a lovely people," Tom Paris commented sarcastically, loud enough only for Ayala – who stood next to him – to hear. The big Maquis nodded grimly.

"And they seem to multiply at will," he added, pointing with his chin at the increasing number of Kazon who were spilling out of the tents like ants. "Chak, watch out, they are heavily armed."

"I see it," Chakotay replied through clenched teeth, moving already to follow on Neelix' heels with the Fleet security people. Janeway strode alongside them with long strides.

"I thought you said the Ocampa had our people," she said in obvious irritation, addressing her words to Neelix' back.

Alarm bells started ringing in Tom's head, as he watched the little alien scurry forward to greet the oncoming crowd of growling Kazon.

"My friends! It's good to see you again!" Neelix enthused. He sounded almost convincing.

"Greg," Tom muttered, "I don't like it. That little toad is going to betray us."

The words had barely left his mouth when he regretted them. _He_ was considered a traitor, by both sides – bringing up the topic was not a wise thing to do. To his surprise, however, Ayala simply nodded again.

"I hear ya, Paris. He's using us for something…"

They had spoken in a low voice, but Chakotay heard them nevertheless. A quick look at the Vulcan's stoic face revealed that Tuvok had his suspicions, too. However guarded a Vulcan face might be, fighting together had taught Chakotay to read the subtle – _very_ subtle – changes in those collected features and was now reasonably sure that Tuvok not only mistrusted the little alien but didn't like him a bit, either.

A sentiment that the Kazon obviously shared. When they recognized Neelix, they surged around him with an angry roar, grabbing him by his lapels, shaking him like a rag doll and dragging him towards their crude encampment. Other Kazon encircled the whole landing party within seconds, and Chakotay could see the panic of being trapped clearly written on Paris' face. The ex-pilot's hand was creeping to his phaser, and for a moment Chakotay was seriously worried that he would start shooting wildly, due to his frayed nerves. But Ayala, may the Spirits bless him, grabbed the pilot's hand and said something in a low voice that seemed to calm Paris down. Chakotay left out a breath he wasn't aware he had holding. Greg had always known how to handle Paris.

In the meantime the universal translator had finally kicked in, and now they could understand some of the quarrel the natives might have had with Neelix. Loose words like "water", "thief" and "cheat" could be made out of the harsh, guttural gibberish that seemed to be their language, giving the landing party a fairly good idea what might have happened.

"Wait! Wait!" Neelix squealed in a futile attempt of producing a friendly laughter, while still being dragged into the outskirts of the tent-town. "Yes, it's always wonderful to be back with you, but I must speak with your Maje, the ever-wise Jabin! I... "

Chakotay shook his head in disbelief. Did the little toad really think that flattery would help him, after having stolen from a people who lived in poverty? Neelix could be happy if they didn't tear him to pieces – or did he count on _Voyager_ beaming them out in case of a true emergency? That was not entirely out of question. The little creature learned quickly; and ethical considerations didn't seem to hinder him in defending his own interests.

One of the Kazon – a whipcord-tough warrior with burning obsidian eyes, _and a female_, Chakotay realized at the second look – threw Neelix to the ground at the base of a crumbling wall, gave him a vicious kick that must have broken several of his ribs and continued yelling at him. The translator could only pick up the words "little ones" and "die", but that was more than enough. Children, even Kazon children, could not bear thirst in the same measure an adult could. Stealing water from their mouths was a death warrant.

Neelix had the presence of mind not to defend himself physically – he wouldn't stand a chance against the enraged female anyway. "Very amusing," he coughed scrambling on his hands and knees, and for a moment Chakotay felt the serious urge to kick him as well, if only for this answer. "Very amusing… I enjoy a joke as much as the next man…" Then, all of a sudden, he broke into a wide and obviously fake smile, exclaiming in false delight, "Jabin! My old friend!"

Following the hopeful look at his pig-like eyes, both the members of the landing party _and_ the Kazon turned to the approaching sect leader. Even the black-eyed female stopped ranting and restrained herself to a few more kicks into Neelix' already abused ribs.

The tall, big-headed man who was making his way through the hurriedly parting crowd was more heavily-muscled than the rest of his people, but that seemed to be a result of genetics, as there was not a gram of fat on his bones, just heavy muscles and thick skin that had become leathery under the constant onslaught of the sand and the sun. He was clad like anyone else, his rank symbolized by a leather sash across his broad chest only and a goatee none of the others wore. His dark eyes, narrowed to mere slits under the bushy brows and heavy, swollen lids, glared at Neelix with open hatred and disgust.

Raising a large hand, he snapped an order to his people, and about a dozen Kazon warriors encircled Neelix at once, pointing at him with their disruptor-like rifles. Apparently, Maje Jabin was not in talkative mode, and if Neelix wanted to survive, he had to be quick.

"Water!" he blurted out in a hurried, pig-like squeal. "Water, Jabin. I have water to replace all that I borrowed."

_Borrowed_, Chakotay thought with a snort, seeing his own disgust reflected in Janeway's eyes. _What a harmless word for stealing life-saving water from the mouths of children!_ But again, who was he to judge Neelix? Could he say for sure that he would never do anything like that? He could _hope_ for it, but despair could drive a person to horrible deeds, and he knew that.

Neelix' statement, however, stopped the Kazon from killing him – for the moment anyway. Eager to make the best of his barely earned chance, the little alien pointed a shaking finger at Janeway. "Their ship has technology that makes water out of thin air!"

Chakotay saw Paris wince and understood that the pilot's survival instincts, won for a high price in prison, no doubt, had just kicked in – understandably enough. His own alarm claxons were howling at top volume, too. Neelix had just made negotiations a lot harder with that thoughtless statement. Without the transporters they'd have no chance to escape these natives, desperate as they were for water.

Chakotay's eyes met Jabin's, and behind the Maje's savage looks the Maquis leader discovered a shrewd intellect, realizing that the other had not become the head of his sect – whatever that meant – through brute strength alone. To keep his people alive at all, Jabin certainly needed to be ruthless, sly and damn fast-thinking, too.

Paris seemed to have come to the same conclusion, because he unhooked the canteen from his belt without being told and tossed it to Jabin. They _had_ to prove their worth if they wanted to get Kim and Torres back. Fortunately, with _Voyager_ keeping a constant transporter lock on them, they also could escape at any moment, but there was no way for Jabin to know that.

And the Maje impressed Chakotay once again. Instead of drinking his fill, he barely touched the canteen long enough to wet his lips before handing it to one of the women, who ran with it to the wounded. And even those didn't take but a small mouthful from the precious gift; only so much that swallowing would become a little easier. Discipline must have been established by an iron fist in the sect.

But even so, the small canteen of water was not enough, not even for the wounded. Jabin, watching the desperate hope on his people's face, turned to Janeway, his eyes narrowing again. "You have more?"

Janeway hesitated for a moment, not quite sure if she should lay all her cards on the table at once. But another look at those chapped lips and burning eyes, the obvious suffering of these people and Neelix' apparent part in worsening their conditions finally persuaded her to respond. She tapped her comm badge.

"Janeway to _Voyager_. Energize."

The tall, cylindrical containers shimmered into existence, back where the landing party had first set down – seemingly out of thin air as though magic. With surprise, Chakotay realized that the cool freshness of water could actually be smelled on the parched air, despite its being sealed in the containers.

If _he_ could smell it, of course, the Kazon could even more so. Their discipline crumbled in moments, and they surrounded the shimmering water tanks with small, strangled cries of hope and despair, forgetting everything else but the possible end of their suffering. Jabin alone held his ground, mistrust growing on his dark, cracked face instead of decreasing, as Janeway offered with a nonchalant gesture.

"There's more where that came from, if you can help us."

Paris winced again, seeing the cold glint of hatred in the Maje's narrow eyes. Janeway's gesture – the offer of even more water – doubtlessly undermined the authority of the sect leader, who was most likely seen not as the chief honcho only but also as the provider of water. The universal translator chose the Standard word "sect" to describe the sort of coexistence these people led, and since the translator was programmed to use context, the Maje's title must have had at least a semi-religious meaning.

Tom shot a quick look at Chakotay and saw that the big Indian was alert, too. Small wonder – the existence of the always hunted Maquis _did_ have certain similarities with the life in prison… or with the life these natives obviously led. Questioning the authority of a leader was generally a bad idea, and it often ended badly.

"How can we help someone so powerful they can create water out of thin air?" Jabin asked with mock respect, but his eyes remained deadly cold.

Chakotay shook his head. Neelix' stupid lie had brought their negotiations to a dead end before they could actually start. There was no way to explain to the Kazon the ways of energy being converted into matter, even if there were no _Prime Directive_ that forbade the sharing of technology with technically less developed cultures. They would never believe them, seeing only that the visitors refused to share their water sources.

Janeway, however, was not willing to give up just yet.

"This man," she said, pointing at the nervously cringing Neelix, "led us here suggesting we might find a people called the Ocampa. Do you know where they are?"

"Ocampa?" Jabin repeated with a distasteful grunt and spat to the ground – symbolically only, Chakotay realized, as no one in this desert hell would waste precious body fluids in this manner. "She is Ocampa," the Maje added, jabbing a finger towards one of the battered tents that apparently served as their excuse of an infirmary. Amidst a small group of young, injured Kazon, a pale, fragile figure stood – if to tend to the wounded or to be guarded by them, it was hard to tell.

At first sight Tom Paris was absurdly reminded of his early childhood, as the sprite-like girl looked exactly like the Flower Fairy from the fairy tales his Nanny used to tell him. She was small and delicate, with a porcelain skin that had been coloured on her face and arms by angry welts; with short-cropped, pale golden hair that gently floated in the dry air, despite being dirty; with large, incredibly blue eyes and pointed elfin ears. The only things missing were the butterfly wings.

Seeing the unmistakable proof of physical abuse made Tom angrier than he had been for years. Prison had taught him that innocents getting hurt was the general rule in certain places, not the exception, and that the wisest course of action was to mind his own business, unless he wanted to get between the wheels as well. After two foolish attempts to protect others, he had learned his lessons well. And still, the urge to throttle the first Kazon he could lay a hand on was surprisingly strong.

Jabin, not realizing the reactions he awakened in the visitors, added with a derisive snarl, "Why would you be interested in such worthless creatures? They live only nine years. And they make poor servants. We caught this one when she wandered to the surface."

"To the surface?" Janeway gave the little sprite an interested look. The girl looked back at her with frank curiosity but almost no fear at all. "You mean they live underground?"

The answer to that was so obvious – actually, it had been before they had beamed down to the planet in the first place – that Chakotay had a hard time withstanding the urge to roll his eyes. Nevertheless, he decided to let Janeway call the shots for now. With the _Crazy Horse_'s transporter and replicators broken, he had nothing to bargain with himself.

Jabin seemed irritated by the apparent stupidity of these off-worlders. "The entity in space," he explained impatiently, jerking his head towards the white fire scarring the sky as the Array's pulses burned past, "the entity that gives them food and power also gives them sole access to the only _water_ on this world." He scowled, hatred and jealousy darkening his face even more. "Two miles below the surface."

_That_ was an interesting piece of information. And it seemed that the elusive alien was anything but popular in this area of space. That opened new possibilities.

"This same entity has abducted two of our people," Janeway said. That caught Jabin's interest, but his only reaction was a slight tilt of his head. "We believe they might be with the Ocampa."

Jabin shrugged. "There's no way to get to them. We've tried."

_Oh, I can imagine you have_, Chakotay thought grimly. Controlling the planet's only water resources would have put Jabin in a unique position. How come the Kazon couldn't take them over yet? If the girl was any indication, the Ocampa couldn't have put up much of a fight.

"The entity has established some kind of subterranean barrier we cannot penetrate," Jabin added, as if reading his thoughts.

"But _she_ got out," Chakotay gestured at the girl who had, mostly unnoticed, crept up to the landing party during their discussion and was now standing in a line with Tuvok – and Neelix, who had, almost instinctively, sought the company of the Vulcan.

The Maje shot an angry glare at the girl. "Occasionally, some of them do find their way to the surface. We don't know how. But the Ocampa always seal the tunnels afterwards."

Neelix, surprisingly enough, seemed to find his courage again. Perhaps the presence of the Vulcan and the armed security detail played a role in it. Whatever the reason might be, he actually gave the silent girl a brilliant smile and dared to open his mouth again.

"M-m-maybe she can help these good people find a way down."

Jabin looked at him as he would at some poisonous beetle. "You'd be wasting your time, he told Janeway. "I've used every method of persuasion I know to get her to help _us_." Indeed, the bruises on the girl's face spoke clearly enough of _that_. "She won't."

Neelix' smile, now aimed at the Kazon leader, acquired a certain… slimy quality. "Then she's worthless to you. Let us trade you water for the scrawny little thing."

He tried to look as if he weren't desperately eager to get the girl away from the Kazon, but he was not good enough, Paris decided, remembering the nonchalant attitude the Ferengi, Quark, displayed every time he wanted to sell something. Neelix' voice sounded – false, much too uninterested to be believed, and his eyes had a hungry look that Tom knew all too well. He was sure that the little alien had met the girl before – he was just not certain what might have been between them.

Unfortunately for Neelix, Jabin was no fool either. His only answer was a dark and dirty smile before he turned to Janeway again.

"I'd be more interested in acquiring this technology that allows you to create water from thin air."

_Of course. Why trade for water itself when you can grab the technology that makes water_, Chakotay thought. _That would put him in the highest position among Kazon leaders – and probably lead to a brutal civil war among the sects._

He was reasonably certain that the very same thoughts shot through Janeway's mind as well. It was a _Prime Directive_ affair if there ever had been one, and Janeway was renowned for her high regard for rules and regulations. Nevertheless, in this particular case even Chakotay agreed with the rules. They could not cause a sector-wide war due to Federation technology. Not even out of compassion for these people who suffered for the lack of something as common and simple as water. He was curious, though, how Janeway would solve the case.

To her credit, she found the simplest way to refuse – an answer that wasn't even a lie.

"That would be difficult," she said, shaking her head. "It's integrated into our ship's systems."

Which was the truth, actually, and when Jabin turned to him for confirmation (apparently, the Kazon were not used to female leadership), Chakotay nodded. He was _not_ going to discuss the topic of portable replicators with the Maje.

Jabin turned to his people who were about to divide the water from the first container among them with great efficiency. Discipline had been re-established in the meantime, and the whole process went on in silence, except for the occasional snarl when some of the young ones, who suffered from the thirst most, tried to press forward. An elderly male with a vicious-looking whip oversaw the whole thing, his demeanour making clear that he wouldn't hesitate to deal out quick and merciless punishment if necessary.

The Maje barked a few orders and the Kazon guards, now refreshed and their strength recovered, encircled the landing party again. Jabin backed off a little, out of the visitor's earshot and waved some of the older males to him – most likely his advisors. They held an impromptu council in low, hoarse voices, and Chakotay began to wonder about the ways a Kazon sect might be led. Jabin was obviously their warlord and thus the highest authority – but could it be that the group of elders had some influence when it came to certain decisions?

Without warning, he felt something touching his mind and saw that the others – Janeway, Paris, Tuvok, even Ayala – turned to the girl in wonder. She looked at them intently, her face unmoved like that of a perfect porcelain doll's, but Chakotay could hear in his mind clearly what must have been her thoughts. _Do not trust them. They will never let me go._

As if an answer to her warning, the Kazon council broke up, and Maje Jabin looked at them with dark satisfaction. "We have decided to keep the Ocampa female," he announced, confirming Chakotay's suspicion that he had not the right to decide about it alone. "_And_ all of you," the sect leader added, waving his armed guards closer. They aimed their rifles directly at Janeway.

Janeway sighed and crossed her arms. They could have beamed out any second, of course. That was not the point. The point was to negotiate for some undisturbed time on the surface, so that they could search for their people. And even _that_ chance seemed to dwindle in front of their eyes. It was frustrating.

Nobody expected Neelix to take action, but he did, all of a sudden. He launched himself from Tuvok's side with an ear-splitting scream, "Tell them to drop their weapons!"

He jumped at Jabin like a madman, grabbed the Kazon's tunic and shoved a small, hand-held weapon he obviously had been hiding under his own clothes all the time under the Maje's chin.

"Drop them, my friends," Neelix said in a falsely friendly voice when none of the Kazon seemed willing to obey. "Or he dies in an instant."

To Jabin's credit, he didn't even flinch. "You fool," he said, aiming his words at Neelix. "You pathetic little fool. Do you really think that my life would be more important than the water we could gain? Go on, kill me! You'll be dead before you touch that trigger a second time – and so will be your little Ocampa tramp and your wonderful new allies. They might have the better weapons, but we have the numbers – _and_ we are willing to fight."

"He means it, Chak," Ayala murmured, unable to conceal a certain amount of admiration for the sect leader. "And his people won't back off just to save his life. He is expendable. Water is not."

"Then we need a little distraction, it seems," Janeway said, having overheard Ayala's remark. "Tuvok. Aim at the containers and fire!"

For one meaningful moment, the Vulcan hesitated, and Chakotay could understand him well. On Tuvok's own home planet water was almost as precious as here. Wasting it for strategic purposes was a sacrilege. But Tuvok was also a Starfleet officer, trained to carry out orders, even if he didn't agree with them. He nodded to his men, and in the next moment three needle-thin phaser beams penetrated the containers.

Chakotay felt a stab of guilt and regret, seeing the precious liquid being swallowed hungrily by the dry, infertile sand. The Kazon cried out in distress, trying desperately to save as much of the wasted water in their little, hand-held canteens as they could. Even Jabin forgot everything else and followed his people to help with the hopeless task.

Neelix stepped aside with a smug grin and looked at Janeway. "I strongly suggest you get us out of here."

Chakotay could hear Janeway calling _Voyager_ for an emergency beam-out, but not even as the familiar tingle of the transporter beam engulfed him could he turn his eyes from those poor creatures, running around like ants, trying to save something so elusive as spilled water.

And before he was turned into a sparkling whirl of atoms, he could clearly hear the low, shocked voice of Tom Paris as the ex-pilot murmured to himself, "This is _wrong_."

* * *

They rematerialized in _Voyager_'s transporter room, and Chakotay felt another stab of guilt, breathing in the clean, fresh air. There were so many things even the Maquis held for granted. He didn't know what he should – what he _could_ – do for those people down on the planet, but Tom Paris was right. Destroying life-saving water in a desert, no matter for what reason, was _wrong_.

Not that Chakotay wouldn't do the same, should there be no other choice. He knew all too well that doing morally questionable things was something a leader sometimes simply couldn't avoid. He had done things he knew were wrong many times. He always felt awful afterwards, but he knew he would do so again. His first duty was to his people – nothing would change _that_.

But he also knew he would never forget the despair on those dark, wasted faces as the Kazon saw all their hopes vanish in the sand. And looking at the faces of Ayala, Paris, Tuvok or even Janeway, he knew he wouldn't be the only one.

Neelix, however, didn't seem particularly guilty. He only had eyes for the fragile girl who stood silently in the middle of half a dozen strangers.

"My dearest," Neelix exclaimed, gazing at the girl in naked admiration. "Didn't I promise to save you from those brutes? Now we can stay together all our life!"

The girl gave no answer. In fact, she didn't seem very excited about the prospect of spending her life in Neelix' company, even if said life only lasted nine years. Chakotay watched the scene with vague disgust. He was glad they got the girl out of the Kazon camp where she had obviously been mistreated and abused. But that didn't change the fact that Neelix cheated them all. He never intended to help find their people at all. He just wanted to get to the girl.

Janeway took a deep breath to calm herself. Chakotay couldn't blame her. After all, not only had they found no trace of their missing crewmembers but they had also managed to make an enemy out of the strongest group of the local population. And all that because Neelix repaid their hospitality with lies.

"Well, Mr. Neelix," Janeway said, displaying impressive self-restraint, "it seems that you owe us an explanation. I hope for your sake that it's a good one."

Neelix cringed from the unmistakable threat in her suddenly very cold voice. The girl, on the other hand, didn't seem frightened – just sad. She gently but decidedly withdrew her hand from Neelix' and stepped away from him a little, as if expressing her own integrity while still not denying him her support. It was an impressive display of complex emotions.

"But," Janeway added, "first we need Nurse T'Prena to check on our… guest's condition. Mr. Paris, please escort her to sickbay. She'll be assigned temporary quarters and given a little time to rest and recover. We'll all meet again in the conference room at 19.00 hours – if that's all right with you," she looked at Chakotay.

The Maquis leader nodded. This arrangement gave him almost three hours to debrief his own crew, check on the repairs of his ship and have a short rest himself. He took Ayala and beamed back to the _Crazy Horse_ immediately.

"So," Janeway said, "let us have a short rest as well. I think we all need it. Mr. Paris, if you'd do your duties as our new chief medic…"

Tom shot her a surprised look, but then only shrugged.

"Yes, Ma'am!" he answered crisply, giving her an old-fashioned Earth military salute that cajoled an unintentional smile from her and gestured to the silent girl to go with him. Neelix, jealousy clearly written all over his spotted face, lunged after them, but the strong grip of a security officer on his upper arm stopped him mid-leap.

"Oh no, Mr. Neelix," Janeway said grimly. "The only place you are going right now is the brig. Ensign Ashmore will escort you there. You have almost three hours to think about why it's a _very_ bad idea to lie to a Starfleet Captain. Ensign, take him away."

"Aye, Captain," Ashmore, having seen Neelix' spontaneous actions on the planet surface, quickly searched him and confiscated another small weapon. Then he grabbed Neelix by the lapels and dragged him out of the transporter room.

Janeway looked after them with unreadable eyes.

"Well, she finally said, "so much about a diplomatic approach. I'd suggest we try some bullying next."

"A most astute suggestion, Captain," Tuvok agreed, and they entered the turbolift to return to their respective quarters for a short rest.

TBC


	18. Interlude 4: Considerations

**THE LOST VOYAGES**

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

**CARETAKER **

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.

**Author's note:** I've decided right at the beginning to pay the Seska/Chakotay relationship more attention than was given in the series. Seska is an interesting character, a complex and very strong one, and I wanted to explore a little what exactly she and Chakotay saw in each other.

On the other hand, I never bought the Kes/Neelix romance, not for a second. So I chose to let it out of this story. Remember, this is an AU. Consequently, there are and will be differences. That's the very nature of an AU. Period.

As always, my heartfelt thanks to Brigid for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.****

**INTERLUDE #4: CONSIDERATIONS**

The debriefing aboard the _Crazy Horse_ was short and fast. Repairs had made some surprising headway, after all. Not only were they able to bring the impulse engines up to 87 efficiency, but they had the transporter online as well. The news eased a little Chakotay's anxiety, even though the Warp drive was still dead.

"What about the replicators?" he asked. Seska made a wry face.

"No hope for the food units, I'm afraid. But we are at least capable of producing water. Great amounts of it."

Chakotay took the hint, and he was sure that Ayala noticed it, too. Still, he was not about to discuss these possibilities openly. Not yet, that is.

"Room temperatures are still too low," he remarked, "especially in the cabins farther away from engineering. Can we hope they would return to normal any time soon?"

Seska shook her head. "Afraid not. The environmental systems are still acting crazy, and we can't find the glitch that's causing the problem."

_Not without Torres._ The underlying message came through clear and loud.

"At least our sick and wounded don't have to freeze," Ayala said. "I hate to break the idea to you, Chak, but we might be forced to abandon the _Crazy Horse_ and either try our luck with the Kazon… or with _Voyager_. Without a functioning Warp drive we could just as well settle down in the desert."

"Or we could help the Kazon take over either the Array or that Ocampa city – if it exists at all," Seska added.

Chakotay shook his head. "I'd rather take my chances with _Voyager_. They want to get home as much as we do. And Janeway might be a stickler with regard to regulations, but she is no fool. What I could see of their ship, they are seriously under-manned. I doubt that _Voyager_ could be properly operated with less than a hundred crewmembers. And they don't have a hundred people. Not nearly enough hands to keep all systems running. They left DS9 with a skeleton crew to begin with."

"So you intend to suggest an alliance to her?" Seska asked doubtfully.

Chakotay grinned. "No, I intend to wait until _she_ suggests it."

They laughed. Then Ayala rose from his seat. "Well, Cap, I'm gonna wash and then I'll return to the bridge. You see that you get some shut-eye before you return to _Voyager_. You need to be sharp."

That was certainly true, and as soon as Ayala left his quarters, Chakotay stepped into the sonic shower. It was no comparison to a real one, with water, but it cleaned him sufficiently, and even massaged some of the tiredness out of his sore muscles. Putting on fresh clothes he returned to his single room. All he wanted was some sleep, but to his surprise he found Seska waiting there.

"What are you still doing here?" he asked, less than friendly in his weariness. He was in no mood for another round of discussion.

"Your quarters are warmer than mine," Seska explained, shivering slightly. "I hoped you'd be willing to share."

Here teeth were visibly rattling from the cold and Chakotay regretted his harsh demeanour immediately. Seska had always been much more sensitive to the cold than any Bajoran he'd ever met – it was a genetic trait, not her fault. And sharing their body heat like in old times on field missions would _not_ mean they'd have to share anything else.

"All right," he said, crawling into his bed fully clothed and lifted the blanket invitingly, "c'mon on, Ice Queen, let's share!"

Seska didn't wait for a second invitation. She slid under the blanket and curled into a ball of shivering limbs in front of him. "How long do we have?" she asked.

"About an hour," Chakotay pulled her close and wrapped his big arms around her deceivingly thin frame. Though born out of sheer necessity, it was a nice feeling to have her in his bed again. It had been empty for too long.

He felt the familiar stirring in his groin from her closeness but suppressed it ruthlessly. This was not the time. Seska had always stirred up his senses, despite the fact that he usually preferred more feminine women, with a little more flesh on their bones. But there was something irresistible in the Bajoran's single-minded pursuit of him – and though her body temperature was unusually low, she could be hot as hell when passion overcame her.

Unfortunately, she was also stubborn, jealous and extremely possessive. She felt that her affair with Chakotay gave her the right to boss the others around and to fight and criticize his decisions; which had been the main reason Chakotay had ended their relationship. The cell could not work under dual leadership, especially when said leaders couldn't agree on a lot of things.

So they broke up, and tension had been high between them for quite a while, until they managed to settle for friendship and mutual respect. Yet Seska never hid her intention to eventually reinitiate their love affair, and right now, seventy thousand light-years from home, feeling her body in his arms and enjoying her familiar scent again, the idea was damn tempting. Still, as long as they had a shimmer of hope to get home any time soon, he wasn't ready to give in. It would only complicate things unnecessarily.

It seemed that similar thoughts kept Seska awake as well, because after a few minutes she said quietly. "Chakotay, are you going to let Kathryn the Great call the shots all the time? Because it doesn't look like she's making much headway with the Kazon, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," Chakotay agreed with a sigh. "What do you have on that devious mind of yours?"

"I was thinking," Seska petted his arm absently. "Janeway missed her chance with the Kazon when she destroyed all that water. But now that our transporter is working again, and we are able to produce water, too, we could start forging our own alliances."

Chakotay thought about it. What Seska said did certainly have its merits – making an enemy out of the Kazon _had_ been a mistake, and they hadn't even found a trace of their missing people in exchange. On the other hand, they owed the Fleeters a certain amount of gratitude for treating their sick and wounded.

"It's not about stabbing Janeway in the back," Seska continued as if she had read his thoughts. "I don't want to sell _Voyager_ to the Kazon – we could make good use of that ship ourselves. But we have to keep our backs free if we intend to return to the planet and keep looking for B'Elanna."

"True enough," Chakotay agreed. "What's your plan? I know you have one. You always do."

"I'll beam down to the Kazon," Seska offered. "I'll talk to Maje Jabin and tell him that little toad lied to us as well as to them. I'll explain to him that we are a different bunch of people than Janeway and her Fleeters, and that neither of us can make water out of thin air; that making water costs a lot of energy. _Then_ I'll offer to replace the water that Janeway has wasted.

The idea seemed sound enough. The Kazon were a space-faring species, after all, which meant that they should be able to understand that sophisticated technology consumed lots of energy. At least Chakotay hoped so. He trusted Seska's shrewd mind to get through with the whole thing.

"All right," he said, "but don't go down there alone."

"I'm not a fool, Chakotay," she replied indignantly. "I'll take Tabor with me – he seems immune to bad luck when it comes to fighting. And Suder, to frighten the Kazon out of their minds. They seem to be a people who believe in demons, and Suder matches the demands of that category nicely."

Chakotay chuckled. Seska was right with that last remark; the withdrawn, soft-speaking Betazoid had a certain snake-like look in his pitch-black eyes that could make anyone freeze with horror. Not to mention that he could go berserk in a fight in less than a second. Yes, Suder was definitely a good choice. And so was Tabor. Torres often mentioned jokingly that the young Bajoran must have had an invisible forcefield protecting him, as he came through every fight without as much as a scratch.

"Good choices," Chakotay murmured, feeling exhaustion weighing down on him heavily, "but wait until nightfall. I don't want the Fleeters to spy on us."

Seska nodded, wiggling closer to him. "Don't worry. I've never been caught on a secret mission."

"So far," Chakotay added. "See that you don't start now. But let's get some sleep first, shall we? I'm dead on my feet."

"You're not exactly _on_ your feet right now," Seska pointed out, grinning. But she cuddled up against him readily enough, and after a moment their deep, slow breathing was the only sound that could be heard.

* * *

The debriefing in _Voyager_'s conference room bore unpleasant similarities to a court-martial, Tom Paris found. That bizarrely-shaped conference table alone could give a person recurring nightmares, with its polished black surface. What was it with Starfleet designers that they preferred to shape simple furniture in the likeness of a coffin?

Oh, what the hell, at least this time he was sitting on the safe side of the table, for a change. T'Prena had sent him to represent sickbay, as she wanted to stay with the patients. Besides, she added dryly, humans were much better suited to listening to long, pointless discussions.

Even though he would have preferred to remain in sickbay where nobody seemed to have a problem with him (except Kurt Bendera, that is, but the Maquis was too weak to cause any real trouble), Tom was looking forward to witnessing how Neelix would be investigated by one very pissed off Starfleet captain. As a pupil of the stern and merciless Admiral Paris, Janeway would undoubtedly offer a great performance.

The members of this impromptu court were the two captains, of course. Tuvok, representing security, Sue Nicoletti, representing Engineering and a blue-skinned Andorian female called X'siarach who accompanied Chakotay. She looked deceivingly cute with her nervously twitching antennae that rose from her short, cotton-like white hair, but Tom knew that Andorians as a rule were tough, fierce and often downright cruel. As the only known species displaying characteristics of both mammals and insectoids(1), their psychological make-up was hard to understand for other races and as a result they were counted as extremely unpredictable. Tom guessed this was the reason why Chakotay chose her as his escort for this particular meeting.

The delicate Ocampa girl was seated next to Tom, near the end of the long table, and now two big security officers were escorting a frightened but stubbornly defensive Neelix into the conference room. He was shackled, which meant that he must have put up some fight, and kept looking around in a less than friendly manner. The security officers removed the shackles and pushed him down – not too gently – on the empty seat on the low end of the conference table, so that he had to face Janeway's icy glare.

"Well, Mr. Neelix," the captain of _Voyager_ began in a controlled manner, "I hope you had sufficient time to think about your irrational behaviour…"

"Irrational?" Neelix snapped indignantly, choosing attack as his best defence. "We got out of there, didn't we?"

"Not thanks to _you_, Mr. Neelix," Tuvok pointed out calmly. "May I remind you that it was you who had caused the whole situation in the first place? With no true intention to help us find our missing people, I must add."

"You lied to us," Chakotay added. "You tricked us out of possible negotiations and you cost us valuable time that we could have spent searching for our crewmembers. You used us. I don't like being used. And I most certainly don't like people who lie to me."

"Neither do I," Janeway said coldly.

"Excuse me…"

With the exception of Tom Paris who had already heard her speak in sickbay, everyone jolted in surprise at the girl's voice. It was deep, pleasant and surprisingly mature for a person who didn't look older that probably fourteen – though considering the fact that her people supposedly only lived nine years, she must have been much, much younger. Still, she didn't behave like a child, despite her innocent, elfin beauty.

"Excuse me," she repeated, a little more forcefully, to gain their attention. "Please, don't blame Neelix. It's actually my fault that things have taken a turn to the wrong."

"I'd like to decide that for myself, Miss…" Janeway trailed off expectantly.

"Kes," the girl offered with a gentle smile. "Just Kes, please. My people don't use honorary titles."

"Well, … Kes, I'd like you to explain to us why do you think you're to blame for the current situation."

"I never should have gone to the surface," Kes explained with a sad little smile. "The elders have warned us often enough. But I didn't listen to them. I'm too curious. I'm told it's my worst failing."

"No, no," Neelix blurted out, unable to restrain himself. "It's a _wonderful_ quality, your most endearing…"

The girl – Kes – didn't pay his gushing any attention.

"You must understand, Captain," she continued, "that I'm barely one year old, which is very young, even for my own kind. Young people of my age still need teaching and guidance. But with both my parents dead already, I was very much on my own, and I gave in to my curiosity. As the elders had predicted, it got me in trouble."

"You found a way to the surface," Janeway stated.

Kes nodded solemnly.

"I knew the Kazon might find me... we _do_ know some of what's going on on the surface. I knew it was dangerous. And yet I couldn't resist. As you know, they _did_ find me."

"Those brutes… kidnapping you!"

"_Mister_ Neelix!" Janeway exploded," If you can't keep your mouth shut, I'll have it fused together permanently!"

_That_ silenced the annoying little twit for a while, and Janeway turned back to Kes.

"What happened after they found you?"

The clear blue eyes of the girl darkened. "They tried to make me tell how they could find a way to our city. They refused to give me any water if I didn't. But Neelix, who was negotiating some business with Maje Jabin, stole water from them and gave it secretly to me. The fourth time he brought it, he got caught and had to flee." She paused, guilt written clearly in her sweet face. "I drank the water and their children died from thirst. It _was_ my fault."

"Is that why you never tried to escape?" Chakotay asked, starting to understand the whole backstory a little better. Kes nodded.

"I've tried to make up for it by caring for their wounded," she said simply. "But it's just not the same."

"Did you know the water you drank belonged to the children?" Chakotay asked gently. The girl shook her head. "Then you are not to blame. You never lived on the surface. You had no way to know the true need of these people." The Maquis leader turned to Neelix, his eyes narrowing. "_You_, on the other hand, knew exactly what you were doing. But you never really cared what would happen, did you? Just as you didn't care what would become of _our_ people."

"Please," Kes raised a small hand, "these accusations lead nowhere. You are certainly right to be angry, but what's done is done. Tell me how we can help you. Mr. Paris," she gave Tom a gentle smile, and Tom blushed, "told me that you are looking for missing people. I'll try to help you find them. I know our planet better than anyone else. Even the Kazon."

"Is it possible that our crewmembers are being held captive by your people?" Janeway asked.

Kes frowned at the idea. "We are not an aggressive species, Captain. We would never hold anyone against their will. But the Caretaker has sent aliens to us who are sick and need care."

"Sick?" Chakotay leaned forward in his seat, open concern on his face. "What's wrong with them?"

"I'm not sure," Kes shrugged. "But I saw patients in your infirmary suffering from the same illness."

"Is that a serious condition?" Chakotay asked. Kes nodded sadly.

"I'm afraid so. None of those sent to us by the Caretaker have ever survived."

"But the three Maquis in Sickbay are making headway," Tom hurriedly added. "The therapy seems to work, although it's a slow and unpleasant process."

"So, if we find Torres and your ensign, we might be able to heal them?" Chakotay asked.

"If we find them in time," Tom replied. "T'Prena says that after reaching a certain stage of the illness the therapy would have no effect. We'll have to hurry up."

Janeway turned to Kes. "Would you be willing to take us underground to look for our missing crew?" she asked.

Kes shook her head in regret. "I'm afraid Jabin was right," she said apologetically. "There's no way to get down. The tunnel I came out has been sealed."

"We don't need a tunnel," Janeway said, a little impatiently. "We have the ability to transport there directly."

_Oh yeah, and why haven't we been able to even locate their city so far?_ Tom thought sarcastically, fearing that things wouldn't be that easy.

"Captain…" Tuvok said in that particularly stiff manner he always used when he had to disagree with his commanding officer. "Our sensors did not pick up any indication of an underground civilization. The subterranean barrier Jabin described may be responsible. It might also block our transporter."

"Especially since the alien on the Array seems to have some sort of transporter technology, too," Nicoletti added. "It can be expected that he would shield the Ocampa city against transporters as well, if he wants them to be safe."

For a moment, Tom forgot to listen to the spontaneously arising discussion, having eyes and ears for the pretty brunette alone. Nicoletti reminded him a little of Jean – both were dark-haired, competent, smart and lovely – and he realized that the memories still hurt. More than he'd have expected, after all those years.

Maybe it was because of Sito who belonged to Jean's short life – and to Nick's as well – in a way Tom never had. Or maybe because he was now free from the mind-numbing monotony of prison. He didn't know. But whatever the true reason might be, it had brought back both the memories and the nightmares, ever since he'd boarded _Voyager_.

He shook his head, forcing himself to attention again. Jean was the past, and he couldn't change the past. But he might still be able to do something to save _Harry_. To help a friend, instead of killing one, for a change.

"There are breaches in the security barrier," Kes offered a little uncertainly, "where it's begun to decay. That's how I got out."

Janeway let out a deep breath in relief. "That's a start, at least." Then she turned to Tuvok. "Have the transporter room begin a sweep for any breaches we might be able to beam through."

The Vulcan nodded and left without comment. Neelix wriggled nervously in his seat as if he felt threatened with the two burly security guards at his back when their boss wasn't around. The fact that he had managed to bite one of them rather viciously when they had tried to drag him out of his cell might have something to do with that.

"Kes can tell you where to go," he blurted out, forgetting Janeway's most recent threat. "But now that she's free, we're leaving this system together."

This announcement earned him quite a few bewildered looks – the most surprised one of them belonged to Kes.

"What are you talking about?" the girl asked in stunned disbelief. It was obvious that there had been no previous agreement between the two of them about this.

"We are leaving, Sweetie," Neelix explained, paying no attention to her apparent unwillingness.

"I'm afraid you don't understand the situation on our hands, Mr. Neelix," Janeway said icily. "Kes is free to leave whenever she chooses, of course. But _you_ – you aren't going anywhere. Except from the brig, of course."

"Y-you… you can't keep me in jail!" Neelix spluttered. "I'm a free citizen of Talax, you… you have no right to keep me here!"

"Oh, but I can – and I will, trust me!" Janeway replied grimly. "You've endangered the life of my crewman and that of Captain Chakotay's engineer, and where we come from, such things are not taken lightly. You'll remain in the brig until we find our people. After that we'll decide if we let you go or not."

Neelix collapsed into a multi-coloured puddle of misery. Kes gave him a compassionate look before turning back to Janeway.

"Captain, I'll go down with you and help you find your missing people. Would you consider letting Neelix go in exchange?"

Janeway nodded. "I would. _After_ we find our crewmen."

"Sweetie," Neelix begged, "you can't possibly be thinking of going back there with these… these…"

"These _people_ rescued me, Neelix," Kes said in a dismissive tone.

Neelix pouted up to her. "_I rescued_ you," he protested, "to stay with you forever."

"Without their help you would never have succeeded," Kes replied with a disapproving face. "It would be wrong not to help them now."

"You belong with me, not with them!" Neelix exclaimed. The gentle eyes of the girl became truly angry now.

"That's enough, Neelix. I owe you a great deal for saving my life in the Kazon camp. You are my friend, and you always will be. But I'm not your property."

Neelix opened his mouth several times but no sound came out of it. He reminded Tom of a fish out of water – only that not even a dying fish could have looked so devastated. Tom almost felt sorry for the little twit. Until now Neelix had apparently believed that Kes returned his romantic feelings – which, obviously, was _not_ the case. What a way to get one's hopes crushed!

Janeway rose. "I think all that can be said has been said," she announced. "We have to wait until the scans bring some results. Ensign Ashmore, escort Mr. Neelix back to the brig. Mr. Paris, please return to sickbay and pack a medkit. Ask T'Prena for something you could inject Ensign Kim and Miss Torres with as soon as we find them, in order to slow down the spreading of the illness. Nicoletti, take over the transporter. We'll need a good engineer at the controls, should anything go wrong."

She waited until all crewmen (and one Starfleet observer) left to carry out their orders, then turned to Chakotay. "Can we have a word? In private?"

Chakotay nodded. "Sure. X'siarach, go to sickbay and check on our people. I'll join you in a minute."

"I'll show you the way," Kes offered, and the Andorian, just as small in stature as she was, nodded wordlessly. They left together, looking like two little girls on a carnival; one dressed up as the Flower Fairy, the other as some sort of wingless butterfly.

* * *

"And now let us speak openly," Janeway said when they were finally alone. "In what shape _is_ your ship? The truth, please."

"In a bad one," Chakotay answered, deciding to be forthcoming with certain facts that she could check out anyway, in order to keep other facts covered for the time being. "We have 87 per cent impulse. No Warp drive. No working food replicators. Unreliable transporter. Environmental systems freaking out periodically. At the moment, we have one bitterly cold ship, except the engine room, which is much too hot for my comfort."

"You could evacuate all nonessential personnel to _Voyager_," Janeway offered. "I know you have trust issues with Starfleet, and I can even understand that, but please believe me – this is _not_ a trap."

She seemed honest enough, but again, so had Tuvok during his time among the Maquis. Consequently, Chakotay was not going to deliver his whole crew into her hands. Not yet. Not until he was left with no other choice.

"This is not so much a matter of trust, Captain," he replied. "Fact is, we don't have nonessential personnel on the _Crazy Horse_. The Maquis are not specialized. We all fight – and we all work on the repairs between fights. We have engineers among us, of course, but everyone else is pretty much fit to do the more common repairs – and we still have a lot of those."

"I see," Janeway's voice was neutral, her face revealed no emotions. "You _are_ accompanying us to the Ocampa city, I presume."

"Most certainly. Aside from the necessity of finding B'Elanna, I've never seen a completely subterranean culture before." He leaned forward eagerly. "Could you lend me a holocamera? I have no such extras on my ship, and I somehow doubt that we'll be invited for a second visit."

His scientific interest seemed to amuse her. "I think I can find one somewhere," she said, grinning. "But I must insist on getting a copy of each picture for my private collection."

He bowed gallantly. "Of course, Ma'am. It'll be your camera, after all. You'll find me in sickbay when it's time to leave."

TBC

**End notes:**

(1) X'siarach in an OC of mine. The dual ancestry of the Andorians was taken from "The Worlds of the Federation" by Shane Johnson – an excellent reference book to the Original Series and early TNG.


	19. Chapter 15: History Lessons

**THE LOST VOYAGES**

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

**CARETAKER **

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.

**Author's note:** Some of the dialogue from the original episode is given to different characters. For a reason. Yes, those lines still don't belong to me.

As always, my heartfelt thanks go to Brigid for beta reading.

* * *

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN: HISTORY LESSONS**

Chakotay had barely enough time to greet his sick crewmembers, check on Tamal and Gerron (who were still in the stasis chambers) and to speak with T'Prena and Sito, when the comm system chirped.

"Janeway to sickbay. We've found a breach. Mr. Paris, Captain Chakotay, Kes, meet me in Transporter Room Two."

"On our way," Chakotay acknowledged and looked at the Andorian. "X'siarach, you're with me. Let's go!"

They all darted off to the nearest turbolift, relieved that they could finally _do_ something.

* * *

The away team rematerialized in a huge cave with a ceiling so high above their heads that it almost masqueraded for sky. The cave was filled with a gentle, indirect lighting that seemed to cast pale shadows in all directions, increasing the eerie feeling of surreality. When they looked forward, beyond the hydroponics plantage in the immediate vicinity, they found the dramatic view of a distant city outlined against the glowering horizon.

"This is where one of the old tunnels end," Kes explained quietly, "the ones through which our people were brought underground. This is a new colony here, founded by young people who have grown tired of tradition."

The city stretched farther than they could see, arching gradually downward until it disappeared beneath the artificial horizon that was lower than any surface planetary horizon could be. And yet Chakotay's well-schooled eye recognized the same types of structures and broken remains that he had seen near the dried-out riverbank a day earlier. No matter why or how long ago the Ocampa were forced to go underground, they had kept their original architecture under the changed conditions.

The long rows of flowstone containers stretched almost to the borders of the city in front of their eyes. The various plants seemed to flourish under the artificial light sources that had been erected between them every ten meters or so to replace the warmth and brilliance of the real sun they could have no access to. A small group of about a dozen young Ocampa, thin and fairy-like, like Kes, wearing the same colourful, diagonally-cut clothes, was working on the lush vegetable beds. In some of these grew small bushes with berries or even low fruit-trees, their trunks covered with some sort of light green moss. All in all, it was a pleasant sight in the mouth of a bleak underground cave.

Having grown up on a farming world himself, Chakotay – probably the only one of the visitors who could – appreciated the ungodly amount of hard labour the Ocampa had put into this plantage. Carving out the long growing troughs had probably cost a whole generation of their short lives, finding enough dirt to fill them probably another one. Had they brought the seed from the surface right at the beginning or had they taken the risk to get out again and again? Hauling water to the small rows alone must have filled their whole day – and how many of them could be fed by this plantage anyway? Or were there other colonies like this?

Questions, questions, questions. The anthropologist in him longed for answers, but this was not the time. They were here for a purpose. Maybe after they had found B'Elanna, he would have the chance to sit down with a few of these people and have a chat with them. Learning about their lives, their history. The repairs would take a few more days anyway. If the Ocampa were willing, Chakotay would like to learn from them.

"Captain," Tuvok's voice intruded his thoughts; the Vulcan aimed his faintly humming tricorder upwards and frowned. "The pulses from the array continue to accelerate. The intervals between them have decreased another point-eight seconds."

Chakotay tried to listen for the deep thrum that signalled the impact of the energy beams coming from the Array, but all he could hear was his own heartbeat. Apparently, Janeway was in the same situation, because she asked wryly, "And? Is that good or bad?"

Before Tuvok could answer – _if_ he had an answer at all – one of the farmers, a tall (for an Ocampa anyway), dark-haired young man with longish ears that pointed slightly backwards, finally discovered them. He cried out Kes' name in delight, ran to her, ignoring the strangers completely, as if it were the most natural thing to have intruders appear in their sheltered caves, and swept her up in his arms, kissing her on the cheek in a brotherly manner before setting her down again.

_A good thing that Neelix isn't with us_, Tom Paris thought, feeling some pity for the little alien. _He would explode with jealousy – and to no end. Why would Kes be interested in him when she can choose from all these pretty young people of her own folk?_

The others carefully set aside their crocks and tools as if those were the most vulnerable items on the whole planet (which, for them, they probably were) and joined Kes and her friend, exchanging hugs and friendly kisses with her. The girl seemed to be very popular among her own kin. Small wonder – even compared with the others, she was fragile, sweet and beautiful.

"Hello Daggin," she smiled, hugging the young man, who had greeted her first, for a second time. "Here I am again."

Grinning enthusiastically, Daggin pushed Kes away from him, holding her at arm's length, stills shaking his head in disbelief as if he couldn't quite accept that she was real.

"We thought we'd never see you again," he said, clearly relieved that he had been wrong. "How did you get back?"

"These people rescued me from the Kazon," Kes nodded toward the landing party. "And now I'm trying to help them find two of their crewmen who have been abducted by the Caretaker." She looked around. "Does anyone know where the aliens are kept? The ones the Caretaker sends here?"

There was a moment of awkward silence, the joyfulness of the young Ocampa blown away in an instant. _Could it be that they are afraid of the alien on the Array?_ Tom Paris wondered. _But why would they fear him? The entity seems to go out of his way to protect them…_

"I think they might be at the central clinic," Daggin finally said. "At least that's what Pharin tells me… That aliens with strange diseases have been sent to them frequently in recent times." Turning to the strangers, he added. "Pharin is my wife, and she works there as a nurse. But I haven't seen her for several days and don't know if there are any aliens right now."

That he was married surprised Tom, as he didn't look older than a sixteen or seventeen years old boy. But the Ocampa probably didn't have any other chance but to grow up and procreate very quickly, if they didn't want to become extinct.

With renewed hope, Janeway touched Kes' shoulder; the girl flinched but didn't protest. "Can you take us there?"

_No_, a deep, forbidding voice sounded in their heads, the tone positively angry; it seemed to come out of nowhere. _She cannot_.

Tuvok alone was able to localize the speaker behind the farmers – two elderly Ocampa males, one as round and grounded as the young people were thin and fairy-like, the other one rather fragile – wearing long grey robes with a strange hood that covered the lower part of their faces as well. The tall and thin elder pushed his way gently through the small crowd and scrutinized Kes with a disapproving frown – one that was returned by the girl in equal measure.

"They can't speak mind-to-mind, Toscat," she said angrily but not without respect; it was an interesting mix. "Please talk aloud."

_A whole race of telepaths! Just what we needed_, Chakotay thought sourly, checking on his mental shields. Despite contrary belief, it _was_ possible for a non-telepath to shut out mind-readers. It demanded a great deal of mental discipline, of course, but as a result of his spirit walks Chakotay had more than enough of that. Nothing helped against a particularly strong telepath, naturally, but those were rare, even among Vulcans or Betazoids. Most such gifts were pretty average, and he could deal with those.

His gaze met Toscat's pale eyes and he saw respect and surprise in them. As if the Ocampa hadn't expected that someone would be able to block his intrusion. It probably didn't happen often.

"I didn't meant to be rude," Toscat said slowly, obviously not used to speak loudly. "But you should not be here."

"We'll be glad to leave," Janeway replied coldly. "Once we find our crewmen."

The pale cheeks of the elderly Ocampa reddened at once. Despite his own shields firmly in place, Chakotay could clearly feel Toscat's profound unhappiness.

"That won't be possible," the old man finally said, his eyes begging their understanding. "We cannot interfere with the Caretaker's wishes."

Chakotay had had enough. After all the trouble they had gone through to find this place at all, he was _not_ going to back off now. Not before he found B'Elanna.

"Maybe _you_ can't," he snorted, "but _we_ can."

The Ocampa elder shook his head sadly. "You don't understand…"

"That's right," Kes interrupted impatiently, anger colouring her delicate face. "They don't understand. How _could _they understand? They have no way of knowing that we have been dependent on the Caretaker for so long that we can't even _think_ for ourselves any longer. They don't understand we were once a people who had full command of our mind's abilities…"

"Child," Toscat sighed, "the stories of our ancestors' cognitive abilities are a myth. At the very least, they are greatly exaggerated."

"We _lost_ those abilities," Kes was unwilling to let herself be silenced again. "Because we stopped using them!"

Toscat rubbed his face tiredly, and Chakotay asked himself just how many times the Ocampa elder might have had to lead this very same discussion with younger people.

"We should not dwell on what's been lost but on all that's been gained," he said.

"Yes," for the very first time, Kes' gentle voice lacked all respect and her tone bordered on disdain. "We've gained a talent for dependence. For simply taking what we're given." She shook her head in open defiance. "I'm going to help them Toscat, whether you like it or not. And I think my friends will join me."

"I'll go with you," Daggin offered. "I want to see Pharin anyway, and she may be able to help us find those people."

He looked around expectantly, but the other farmers couldn't find the courage to defy their elder any more than they had already done. Toscat shook his head sadly.

"You defied the Caretaker by going to the surface, Kes," he warned, and Chakotay wondered whether it was the alien's custom to deal out punishment to those who were disobedient. "Learn from the experience. Follow the path he has set for us."

_Or else you might make him angry_, was the underlying message, and Chakotay could tell that the elder was genuinely concerned.

Kes must have felt it, too, because she smiled at the old man gently. "I _have_ learned very well, Toscat. _I saw the sunlight!_"

Groans of almost painful longing ran through the group of young farmers, and Tom Paris' heart contracted in sympathy. He could still remember prison very well – how he had volunteered for every shitty job, just to be able to get out of his suffocating cell and to be in the sun, where the wind would move freely. He couldn't even imagine spending his whole life in a cave – even if said cave was huge enough to house a whole city.

"I can't believe our Caretaker would forbid us to open our eyes and see the sky," Kes continued gently. "But if he really does… then he is probably not as benevolent as we have always been told."

"He keeps us here for our own safety," Toscat argued. "Why can't you young people understand that?"

"Oh, we do understand it all right," Daggin answered in Kes' stead. "We just don't want it anymore. He looked at the landing party and made an inviting gesture with his hands. "Come with me. We'll find your people."

He spun with determination, leading Kes, the strangers and a few of his friends who had gathered enough courage to follow him, down through the gardens, towards the city.

Chakotay stopped for the moment next to the elder who wrung his hands in the front of his shape- and colourless robe and shook his head unhappily.

"It is the prerogative of youth to rebel against the rules of the old," the Maquis leader said not without sympathy, remembering the bitter arguments with his own father. Toscat sighed.

"Do you think I wouldn't know that? It has happened before – and it always ended badly. The surface is too harsh for us to survive. We simply don't live long enough to fight the desert. And the Caretaker is unable – or unwilling – to support us in any other way but this. We had to arrange ourselves with what we are given… or perish."

"I'd like to hear more about this," Chakotay said, "Would you not come with us, so that we can talk on the way?" Seeing Toscat hesitate, he added, "At least you could keep an eye on the young ones."

"Very well," after a moment of hesitation, Toscat fell in step on his side, "what do you want to know?"

"I don't even know where to begin," Chakotay admitted. "How long have your people lived underground?"

Toscat sighed, the longing now unmistakable in his voice. "For over five hundred generations."

"But that would be…" Chakotay made a quick calculation in his head, "more than four thousand five hundred years!"

"No," Toscat corrected, "it's about half that time. We don't procreate until shortly before we reach the end of our first cycle."

Chakotay gave him a blank look. "I don't know what you mean."

"A cycle is the time our planet needs for a full circle around its sun," Toscat explained patiently, "and it is half as long as the average life span of an Ocampa."

"So you don't actually live nine years?" Chakotay asked. Toscat smiled.

"Most of us live exactly two local cycles… although there are small differences. The Kazon, however, measure time differently. It _was_ the Kazon who told you we lived nine 'years', wasn't it?"

"Well, I can't be sure how they count," Chakotay said thoughtfully, "but I believe it was our universal translator that calculated your lifespan using our own metric system, based on context."

"That's most likely," Toscat nodded. "In that case it seems that – as you would say – we have lived here for over two thousand years."

"But before that you lived on the surface, didn't you?" Chakotay asked. "We've seen the ruins of your ancient cities along the banks of what must have been once a great river."

"The river Jalad," Toscat nodded with a wistful smile. "Yes, we have lived along its banks, among green fields and lush forests… Until the Warming began.

"The Warming?" Chakotay repeated, seeing that his guess about a natural disaster had been correct."

"When the surface turned into a desert and the Caretaker came to protect us," Toscat explained. They had reached the border of the city, and Chakotay stared with interest at the walkways and ramps and mechanized stairways that glittered back and forth between the buildings. Toscat selected one of the many moving walkways and gestured Chakotay to follow him.

They stepped onto the walkway and it carried them towards the centre of the city with moderate speed. It was barely faster than walking afoot, and Chakotay didn't really understand why these walkways were necessary at all, except for old and sick people; they only consumed energy that could be used for more important things. But perhaps living underground _had_ weakened the Ocampa as a whole, and they needed to save their strength.

"Our ancient journals tell us that the Caretaker opened a deep chasm in the ground," Toscat continued in the routine manner of someone who had told the very same story countless times. Maybe he had. Maybe it was the duty of the elders to teach the young people their own history. "He led our ancestors to this place and has provided for all our needs ever since."

"Or what _he_ considered your needs to be," Chakotay said, looking around. The buildings showed the same odd lack of colour as the entity's control room had on the Array, with the not insignificant difference that the alien himself was able to create any holographic environment he wanted, while the Ocampa were sentenced to live under these rather dull conditions.

Apparently, their arrival provided the Ocampa with some much-needed inspiration, because Chakotay became aware of the presence of other people – and quite a few of them at that. As he stepped down from the moving walkway in Toscat's trail, he discovered a small crowd of Ocampa, wearing he same colourless robes as the elder, staring at him with open amazement. They exchanged quick glances among themselves – Chakotay had no doubt that they exchanged mental messages as well, the same way as non-telepathic species would make audible remarks. Some of them gave him shy, hesitating smiles, and he smiled back at them. It was impossible not to like these quiet, timid people. It was not their fault that the alien – who proclaimed himself their Caretaker – had no sense of ethics.

"Please forgive them," Toscat's pale cheeks coloured in embarrassment. "They know you've met the Caretaker. None of us has ever seen him. This way, please."

"As far as I am concerned, meeting him was not a pleasant affair," Chakotay shrugged, following the elder who pushed his way gently through the long line of people who stood in a queue, silently and patiently. "He is an interesting sight to behold, he and his Array, I would give him that much, but he is neither friendly, nor forthcoming."

"I'd like to hear more about what you have seen," Toscat admitted, leading him towards a softly lighted plaza that was filled with people already. "Would you care to join me on the courtyard for a meal? We could discuss things of mutual interest while eating."

"I'd love to," Chakotay said, "but I have to find my engineer first."

"The others can do that for you," Toscat argued. "And they will come back this way. I'll tell Daggin that they should meet you here, by the food dispensers. Please, it is important that your people and mine reach an understanding."

"Just a moment," Chakotay touched the Starfleet-issue comm badge, borrowed from_ Voyager_ for the extent of this mission. "Chakotay to Janeway."

"Go ahead," came her voice.

"Captain, it seems that Toscat, the Ocampa elder wants to discuss matters of their history with me. Could you meet us in the courtyard on your way back? Toscat tells me the young Ocampa will know where it is."

A moment silence, then Janeway answered. "All right, Mr. Chakotay. We'll pick you up there. Janeway out."

Toscat sighed in obvious relief. "Please, follow me. Our food dispensers are right this way.

Chakotay did as he was told, and they slowly made their way through the various lines of people criss-crossing the courtyard. The Maquis leader noticed that some of the lines didn't move at all.

"Is there something amiss?" he asked.

Toscat tilted his head to one side, listening to some wordless mental conversation – then he sighed again, this time in resignation. "It seems that one of the food dispensers has failed again. The service attendant must be busy elsewhere."

"Does it mean that you are actually able to repair your own technology if necessary?" Chakotay asked, not quite understanding why he was so surprised. After all, the Ocampa must have had _some_ technology before the so-called Warming hit them.

"Of course," Toscat replied, a little insulted. "What do you think we are, ignorant fools? If our lives were longer, we…" he switched to mindspeak as if he didn't want anyone else to hear him, _we might not need a Caretaker at all_.

Chakotay, excellent tactician that he was, understood the dilemma all too well. Facing a completely new situation after the disaster demanded time. _A lot_ of time – for adapting, for finding new ways to survive under the slowly worsening conditions, to preserve water, to grow food. The Ocampa simply didn't live long enough for that. No matter how quickly they learned and adapted, their lives were not long enough to work their ways through the inevitable throwbacks of new experiments. That was why they had become dependant on their Caretaker. And that was the only condition not even the alien could change.

The patiently waiting Ocampa gave way to Toscat – apparently, being in a higher position was an advantage, even among these gentle folks – and the elder went straight to the front of one of the lines, reached around the first person in that particular queue and lifted a sliding door to an innocuous wall unit so he could pull out two trays of moist, textureless food. It looked like guacamole, minus the green colour – it was as grey as most things in this underground city, and if the neutral smell was any indication, it hadn't seen the necessary spices, either.

"Does the Caretaker provide your meals too?" asked Chakotay sarcastically.

Toscat smiled, seeing his lack of enthusiasm, and led him off the plaza towards row after row of neat, grey tables. "In fact, he does. He designed and built this entire city for us after the Warming. The food processors dispense nutritional supplements every four-point-one intervals." He looked at his own plate, his smile fading away, and added with a wistful sigh, "It may not offer the exotic tastes some of our younger people crave these days, but it meets our needs."

_Just like this whole place here_, Chakotay realized. _This has been designed for survival – nothing more. The alien provides all that is necessary to keep their bodies alive but doesn't see – or doesn't care – that their souls wither and die in this underground prison._

"It's not that bad," he said, trying the indefinite food, which was the truth. The food was not bad – that would have probably been better. It had no taste whatsoever. None at all. It _was_ like guacamole without any spices.

"What is guacamole?" Toscat asked, picking up a stray, unguarded thought.

"Avocado paste," Chakotay explained, and seeing the other's blank face, he added. "Avocado is a fruit from Earth, the planet of origin for many of us. The fruit itself tastes bland, but made into a paste and mixed with strong spices it could be a delicacy. In fact," he pointed at the food with his spoon," _this_ could be made a delicacy with just the right spices. My mother had a fantastic recipe for guacamole, and I think this food would work nicely with her additions."

"Before the Warming, our people grew their own food and prepared it according to their individual tastes, or so it's said," Toscat sighed, "but that was when our world still looked like _that_."

Chakotay looked into said direction and discovered huge monitors, as long and tall as the main viewscreen of a Galaxy-class starship, hanging above the sprawl of tables. They showed in lush pictures the long-lost beauty of the planet: oceans and rivers of exquisite majesty; great forests and grassy planes, reaching from one snow-topped mountain to the other; graceful hers of small, antelope-like animals dancing on the planes; fragile birds sailing over the waters…

All around the eating zone, the quiet Ocampa studied the ever-changing pictures with an expression of almost painful longing on their pale faces. While understanding the necessity of keeping at lest _some_ connection to one's roots, Chakotay found it cruel to remind these poor people constantly of what they had lost, without any hope of regaining it.__

"Is this how the Caretaker communicates with you?" he asked with a frown.

"He never communicates directly," a new voice answered, and a middle-aged Ocampa male with a gentle, deeply lined face and thinning grey hair stopped at their table. "We try to interpret his wishes as best we can."

Toscat looked up at the newcomer with a fond, although surprised, smile.

"Bruthir, my dear friend! Please, join us," turning to Chakotay he added, "Bruthir is a doctor and works in the central clinic."

"That comes in handy," Chakotay nodded his greetings to the Ocampa doctor. "Then you might be able to explain to me your Caretaker's reason for abducting our people."

The doctor twirled a fork-like eating utensil in his own indefinable mass of 'nutritional supplements' thoughtfully. "We believe he must have separated them from your species for your own protection."

"Our _protection_?" Chakotay thought of the heavy casualties on both ships, of the wounded, of Yosa and Chell and Bendera, suffering from some weird illness and suspected that the Ocampa had no idea what was really going on on the Array.

"Why, from their illness, of course," the doctor answered in surprise, confirming his suspicion. "Perhaps he is trying to prevent a plague."

"Our people weren't sick until they met your Caretaker," Chakotay pointed out grimly, now certain that B'Elanna and the young Starfleet Ensign must be suffering from the same illness as Bendera and the others. The poor doctor looked slightly crestfallen, but Chakotay was not in the mood to spare his feelings. "Why would he send our people to you if he thought this was an infectious disease?"

"He must know we are immune," the doctor was clearly guessing. "From time to time, he asks us to care for people with this disease. It's the least we can do to repay..."

"Wait a minute!" Chakotay interrupted. "There have been _others_ before our people? With the same illness?"

The doctor nodded, as if that were the most natural thing he could have asked. "Yes."

"Where are they?"

"This condition is very serious," the doctor sighed. "Treating visitors is always difficult, no matter how careful and clever we try to be. We don't know exactly how to treat it. I'm afraid the others did not recover."

"The head nurse of _Voyager_ has found a cure for the illness," Chakotay said. "Once our people are back aboard the ship, they might be saved. But time is an important factor. We have to take them back, as soon as possible."

Toscat shook his head, the fear emanating from him almost touchable. "The Caretaker won't like that…"

"But _I would_ like to see that cure," the doctor said eagerly. "Toscat, I wish to visit their hospital and learn to treat this condition if I can. Maybe so we could save the next visitors the Caretaker sends to us."

Toscat wrung his hands nervously. "You can't be serious! What if you get in trouble on the surface, just like Kes?"

"I _am_ serious!" the doctor said with emphasis. "If this illness can be healed, I want to learn how to heal it. Besides, these people obviously didn't get into any trouble. I'll be safe with them."

They looked into each other's eyes for endless moments, and Chakotay could only guess what kind of wordless conversation could have passed between the two of them. Finally Toscat's shoulders slumped in defeat.

"I could never talk you out of anything you wanted to do."

The doctor touched his shoulder gently. "I'll be careful. I promise. And I'll be back in time. But this is something I simply _have_ to do."

"In time for _what_?" Chakotay asked, a little suspiciously. Toscat gave him a strangely forgiving smile that somehow reminded him of his grandfather.

"For my farewell. I have recently fulfilled my second cycle. It's time for me to return to the soil of which the stuff of my body has been taken."

"You mean you are going to die?" Chakotay tried to set things straight. Toscat nodded.

"Most of us don't even reach that age anymore. But those few who do won't burden our society beyond their scheduled time."

"_Scheduled_ time?" Chakotay repeated, not willing to believe his ears. "Does it mean that you are not _allowed_ to live longer than nine years?"

"When we were first brought here, there existed such regulation indeed," the doctor explained, "as the city could only nurture a certain size of population. But that's the past. Our numbers are dwindling dangerously, and every single one of us is needed. That's why we try keeping our young people from endangering themselves in foolish actions."

"Why are you planning to take your own life then?" Chakotay looked at the Ocampa elder incredulously. Toscat shook his head.

"I am not. In most cases, finishing the second cycle is the natural end of our lives. I can feel my strength waning as we speak, even though I seem to belong to a minority that lives beyond two full cycles. We know the signs. I won't live any longer than another _brucen_. Probably less. Nothing can change that."

Chakotay frowned as the universal translator capitulated against the strange expression. "What is a _brucen_?"

"A unit for measuring time," the doctor said. "When we still lived on the surface, a _brucen_ meant ten local days. We kept these measures even here, so that we can have an artificial rhythm of daytime and nighttime."

"I see," Chakotay paused, watching the silent crowd for a while. "Then something occurred to him. "Am I imagining things or are there really no older women among your people? I can see girls and young women, but all older people seem to be male."

"That is correct, unfortunately," the doctor nodded. "Living under the earth had weakened our women a lot more than it has us. For example, for the last fifty generations, no woman was able to give birth more than once. A few fortunate ones have twins, but the majority of the married couples have only one child."

"Spirits!" Chakotay had five siblings and couldn't imagine growing up without them. "No wonder your numbers are dwindling!"

"And that's not all," the doctor continued sadly. "Many women aren't even strong enough to survive childbirth anymore. My own wife died by the birth of our daughter, and Toscat was even more unfortunate: he lost his unborn son, too."

"That's terrible! Did you never remarry?"

"No. It's in our nature that we have only one spouse in our whole life. Besides, we have to keep the gene pool as variable as possible, to avoid inbreeding and degeneration."

"So what are you doing?" Chakotay asked. "Spending the rest of your lives alone? That's a sorry existence."

"It would be, if we did so," the doctor agreed. "But few of us choose a lonely life. Usually, when one's wife dies, the widower chooses a male consort after the period of mourning." He smiled at Toscat fondly. "We have been together for half a cycle by now and raised my daughter together."

"This is a spiritual and emotional bond, mostly," Toscat added, "as with the end of the _elogium_ – which is our mating period – our other urges become dormant. Permanently. The rest of our lives is spent with the raising and teaching of our children and in the service of our society."

Chakotay shook his head in amazement, finding the whole concept slightly bewildering, though not completely unheard of. After all, wasn't the Vulcans mating cycle something similar? Before he could find any proper answer, however, his comm badge chirped.

"Janeway to Chakotay."

He touched his badge. "Go ahead."

"It seems that we have a problem," Janeway told him. "Apparently, our people have left the clinic hours ago, in a heroic attempt to break out. We must search the city for them, Daggin says. Ask people if anyone has seen them."

"I see. Where can I join you?"

"Stay where you are right now. We'll pick you up in a minute."

"Understood. Chakotay out." He broke the connection and turned to the doctor. "You work at that clinic. When did you last see our people?"

"We had morning meal together," the Ocampa replied. "In fact, we parted ways with them right here, in the dining zone."

"Where have they gone afterwards?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell. We considered them patients, not prisoners. As long as they were not violent, they could move all over the city freely."

"Not violent?" Chakotay laughed. "B'Elanna? I'm sure she gave you a tough time."

"The female patient was a little… difficult," the doctor admitted. "But her male companion seemed to have a calming influence on her."

Chakotay whistled. "Now, that's something I _have_ to see – a man who can tame B'Elanna Torres. That would be a first."

"I hope you will find them in time," the doctor said gravely.

* * *

At the same time Seska stood in Maje Jabin's tent, in the middle of the Kazon settlement – if the unruly arrangement of poor accommodations could be called a settlement in the first place. She had beamed down as soon as Chakotay had left _Voyager_, not waiting for dusk, despite her Captain's orders. She assumed that everyone would be busy watching the landing party's lifesigns anyway. Besides, she was skilled enough to camouflage the transporter beam, so that it would not set off the alarm on _Voyager_'s sensors. This ship might have been better than anything the crew of the _Crazy Horse_ could ever dream of, but _Voyager_ was a new ship, with a new (and decimated) crew, no match for her Maquis tricks.

She had updated the universal translator with the records of the first encounter with Jabin's people and even made the effort to learn the pronunciation and the correct manner of addressing the Maje in his own language. She had always had a good ear for languages, and experience had taught her the advantage of greeting new people according to their own customs.

And indeed, Maje Jabin seemed impressed, though not a bit less suspicious. At least he declared himself willing to hear Seska out, instead of killing her on the spot. That was all Seska really needed: a foothold.

"First of all," she began, "I want to tell you that we are not all the same. As you have undoubtedly realized already, we are two different groups of people. The uniformed ones are _Starfleet_ people – and though many of them are the species as we are, they are _not_ our friends. In fact, they have been sent out to hunt us down."

"Then why are you cooperating with them?" Jabin asked, his suspicions increasing.

Seska shrugged.

"At this moment, we share the same fate. We all have been brought here against our will by the alien that dwells on that Array in space. We hope to find a way home, and we have a better chance if we unite our efforts. But it does not mean that we think everything the Starfleet people do is right. Like destroying precious water."

She paused, letting Jabin have time to process the information for a while. Then she added in an almost casual manner.

"To show our goodwill, we are willing to replace the water that has been destroyed."

Jabin leaned forward openly. "You, too, have the technology to make water out of thin air?"

"No," Seska said promptly, determinedly. "Nor have the others. That little toad has lied to you. The technology, with which we make water, is an energy-transforming device; and making things with it requires big amounts of raw energy that we have to replace regularly. That is why we don't have unlimited supplies of water, food, clothing… of anything. Just like your ships won't fly without fuel, our transforming devices won't work without consuming energy, either. We have to be careful with their use."

"And yet you are willing to replace our water?" Jabin shook his head, clearly not believing her. "Why would you do that?"

"Because we need allies," Seska replied. "Strong ones – and you _are_ strong, aren't you?"

"We control this whole sector," Jabin said with a shrug. "Is that strong enough for you?"

"I hope so," Seska answered, "because we need our united strength if we want to force the alien to send us back home again."

"He won't do that," Jabin snorted.

"Not willingly anyway," Seska agreed. "But we can work out a plan to trick him into doing so –together. And even if we can't, if we have to seek out another way home, we'll need a strong alliance to get through this sector unharmed."

"And why should I help you?" Jabin asked, completely untouched by her flattery.

"Because if we can get what _we_ need, I'll see that you get one or two of our transforming devices," Seska promised. "I'll teach you how to use them and how to keep anyone else from using them. As long as you can provide enough energy, your people will never lack water again. Or food. Or clothing."

Jabin thought about this for quite some time. He had not become the Maje of his people by being an idiot – in fact, he was a shrewd and merciless man, more so than most. Which meant that not only did he understand what a near-unlimited source of water would mean for his position among the other sect leaders, he also realized that he must not trust this strange alien woman completely. Her eyes made him uncomfortable – they reminded him of a desert snake.

Still, the offer was too good to reject. After the recent near-fiasco, he needed to strengthen his position. He knew the alien woman was trying to use him for her own purposes, but he had the same intention, so finding a worthy adversary didn't bother him at all.

"Very well, he finally said. "I'll give this… alliance a try. But I won't let you make a fool out of me." He stepped to the entrance of his tent and barked out, "Rettik!"

A young Kazon, thinner and even more worn out than the average, stepped in and waited for his orders. Jabin turned to Seska again.

"This is Rettik – a youngster without a sect, without a warrior's name. He is nothing – a _Goven_, an outcast. He will accompany you on that ship of yours and keep an eye on you. If this alliance is a success, he will be accepted into our sect and achieve his true name. If not, he will die in shame. So, don't even think of playing tricks on him. He has nothing to lose – and everything to win that makes a Kazon's life worthwhile. Try to cheat him, and he will kill you in a heartbeat."

Seska looked into the fiery dark eyes of the young Kazon and knew that Rettik _would_ do everything Jabin had told him – or die trying. She didn't intend to tell Jabin that his little wannabe-assassin was no match for her, of course. It was best if the Maje thought he had her in the palm of his hand.

"Agreed," she said simply. "No tricks. I'll arrange for the water replacement now, and then I'll return to my ship. Rettik can come with me right away."

TBC


	20. Chapter 16: New Alliances

**THE LOST VOYAGES**

**The "Star Trek – Voyager" that could have been**

**by Soledad**

**CARETAKER **

**Alternate pilot episode**

**Disclaimer:** All Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry and Viacom or whoever owns the rights at this moment. I don't make any profit out of this – I wish I would, but I don't, so suing me would be pointless.

**Rating:** PG-13, for some rather disturbing images.

**Author's notes:**

This is the last finished chapter for now. The next update will take some time, I'm afraid. I expect six other chapters to the end, unless the muse has other ideas.

As always, heartfelt thanks to Brigid for beta reading. All remaining mistakes are mine.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN: NEW ALLIANCES **

It didn't take more than ten minutes for the landing party to arrive at the eating zone. They were still flanked by the young Ocampa, but they also had someone new with them: a young woman, blonde, blue-eyed and smooth-faced like Kes, yet wearing the same colourless robes as the rest of the city's population. Also, compared to Kes' angelic beauty she was rather plain – and, according to the wealth of experience mirrored in her large eyes, considerably older than Kes. Seeing the doctor sitting with Chakotay, those eyes lit up at once.

"Father," she said in a soft and sweet, almost childlike voice, "please do not be angry with me. I… I was just sorry for them, and they were so desperate to find a way out of here.."

"I am certain that you meant no harm, Pharin," the doctor answered soothingly. "Why don't you tell us what happened, so that we can find the patients quickly?"

The woman named Pharin – apparently the doctor's daughter and, memory clicked in for Chakotay, also Daggin's wife – sighed.

"I came for morning meal shortly after you had left, Father, and I met the patients right here. One of them, the dark female, accused me of watching them," she shook her head in amazement at the ridiculous idea. "But the other one, the young male, calmed her down. Then I gave them some of the medicine Daggin and his friends make."

Turning to Chakotay, she added as an explanation. "My husband and some others have broken from tradition and left the city. The colony grows fruits and vegetables.

"I know," Chakotay nodded. "We've seen their gardens. But what kind of medicine did you give our people?"

"We've discovered quite by accident that the moss that grows on certain fruit trees has healing properties," Daggin answered for his wife. "We brought it to the clinic, and Pharin and the others distilled various sorts of medicine out of it."

"But the patients had no trust in our medicine," Pharin said sadly. "They insisted that their only hope for survival would be to get to the surface where their own people could find them."

"So, what have you done?" the doctor asked gently.

Pharin looked at him with a certain tense bravery. "I have shown them a way. The one through the ancient tunnels – where Kes was able to get through."

"Oh, child," Toscat shook his head in sorrow, "you know that such things are against the Caretaker's wishes."

"I know, _anan_ Toscat," Pharin said, "but keeping these people here against their will is _wrong_. Especially as we can't help them. The Caretaker…" she bit her lower lip in anguish. "The Caretaker has been behaving strangely for the past tenth-cycle... Abducting people, increasing the power supply…"

"The power supply?" Chakotay repeated, exchanging meaningful looks with Janeway. The nurse shrugged uncertainly.

"The Caretaker tripled the energy he sends us," Toscat admitted uncomfortably. Of course he would know such things. "We have enough stored now to run the city for five years. We don't know the reason for it. But whatever the reason might be, we have to trust the Caretaker's decisions."

_We have no other choice_, he supplied mentally, for Chakotay only.

Janeway frowned. "Where should we look for our people then?"

The nurse made an uncertain gesture. "I can show you the entrance to the ancient tunnels as I have shown them. As Kes can tell you, over the years, small breaches have appeared in security barriers just large enough for someone to slip through. But it still requires digging through meters of rock to get out," she added sadly. "I don't think they've gone too far yet. They were weakened already."

"You don't need to show us the way," Kes said with determination. "I know where to go."

"But we are very deep underground," the doctor said quietly, "and those tunnels run long. How would you know in which one to look for them?"

"This instrument," Paris lifted his tricorder a little, "can locate their biosigns. If we split up and search several tunnels simultaneously, finding them shouldn't take too long."

Janeway nodded sharply, hiding her surprise over the leadership abilities of the Admiral suddenly surfacing in his prodigal son. "Let's do it. Tuvok, go with Mr. Paris. Ensign Bennet, Crewman Fitzpatrick, you're with me. I assume you want to take your own crewman," she looked at Chakotay.

The Maquis leader shrugged. "Of course."

They split up and followed Kes and the other young Ocampa in small groups. Before leaving, however, Chakotay turned back for a moment.

"Toscat, I'd like to continue our conversation, once we've found our people. I believe there are many things we could learn from each other."

"I quite agree," the Ocampa elder said, "but you might not have the time. You've angered the Caretaker already by interfering with his plans – and our life. There is no way to tell how he will react."

Remembering his encounter with the elusive alien entity on the Array, Chakotay answered thoughtfully, "I think there wouldn't be any way to guess your Caretaker's reactions correctly anyway."

* * *

The way down the tunnels was longer than they had expected, and before long, Tom Paris could feel the approach of a good, old-fashioned panic attack – one the like of which he hadn't had for months. The dark hopelessness of this place reminded him of the ruins of a nameless colony planet he had visited with a rescue team as part of his Academy training.

The planet had been bombed to pieces during the Federation-Cardassian war, made inhabitable for at least a few centuries. But the salvage of the remains had been still going on, not because there was anything of true value to salvage, but because young cadets needed the sad experience of such missions. Tom could still remember vividly the horrible feeling of the weight of the rock above him – the suffocating awareness of the meters and tons of dead planet hovering above his head, ready to crash down onto him in any given moment.

Of course, he could have asked to be given a different assignment. As he had no problems with the tiny, enclosed space of a cockpit – and he never had – his claustrophobia wasn't considered a career hindrance. But that would have been a weakness, and the Admiral didn't tolerate weaknesses in any of his children. Especially not in his only son. So Tom went with his class to that accursed planet… and had had the irregularly recurring panic attacks ever since.

Well, _this_ planet was very much alive, of course, at least _under_ the surface, but that didn't help Tom's condition much. Unfortunately for him, the tunnels were barely high enough to stand upright in them – in some places not even _that_ high. The fact that his only companion there was an emotionless Vulcan who couldn't possibly be bothered by such illogical things as a panic attack caused by extreme claustrophobia, didn't help either.

Tom used his flashlight to illuminate the immediate area in front of him, and his glance fell on a rickety spiral of metal stairs that faced straight upward. He set a tentative foot on the lowest step, and the metal began to creak and crackle and bounce, as if ready to plunge down into the bottomless darkness below. Wetness dripped, dropping from the rock all around them and Tom could smell a peculiar sweetness, like the stench of rotten fabric – or rotten flesh – emerge from the unknown depths below the staircase, trying not to think about rebellious young Ocampa who might have tried to get out this way.

"If they came this way, they could only have climbed upwards," he stated reasonably, fighting the urge to get violently sick. "So, if we keep going up, we should be heading in the right direction."

"A little simplicistic perhaps, but true nevertheless," the Vulcan commented. "Would you care to take the lead, Mr. Paris?"

Tom took a deep breath, trying to calm himself… and felt a new wave of nausea caused by that hideous stench. "You better go first. That way I won't kill you, too, when I fall."

For a moment the Vulcan seemed as if he wanted to ask something, but mercifully he decided against it and simply stepped up to overtake Tom and began to climb. With agonizing slowness, Tom followed his lead. The bright whiteness of Tuvok's flashlight danced above them, revealing nothing but the next dozen or so webbed metal steps. It seemed that they had been climbing and crawling in these godforsaken tunnels for several lifetimes, and there was still no sign of Harry… or of that Maquis woman.

"How far are we from the top of these caves?" Tom asked, unable to remain silent any longer. Let the Vulcan think he was just another idly prattling human – talking actually helped him hold his panic at bay.

"We have made one-third of the way," Tuvok, of course, had absolutely no difficulty checking the tricorder in his hand while climbing upwards and holding himself securely with the other one.

"Any sign of them?" Tom asked, against all hope.

"Not yet," Tuvok paused for a moment. "In fact, unless these rocks contain a substance that would be interfering with our tricorders, I do not believe that either Ensign Kim or Miss Torres could be in these tunnels."

_Great, just great!_ Tom felt sarcasm arising in him. _What have we climbed up these back-breaking steps for, then?_

But out loud he only said. "So, what are we doing now? Crawl back and report to the Captain that we failed?"

"Negative. As I already told you, we cannot trust our readings completely. The only logical action is to continue our way upwards, in case the readings are false. Besides, the closer we come to the surface, the easier it will be for _Voyager_'s transporters to pick us up."

That was the unquestionable truth – if not exactly what Tom had hoped for – so the younger man shut up and continued to follow the Vulcan. They climbed for another lifetime or two, and Tom slowly came to the crazed imagination that the damned tunnels would _never_ come to an end but would go on and on indefinitely. He did his best to climb the metal steps, crawl through the passages made for the considerably smaller Ocampa and still keep an eye on his tricorder, but it had become increasingly complicated.

"This damn instrument isn't willing to throw off any definitive readings," he growled impatiently. "It keeps threatening to spike around every turn!"

"It is most likely responding to power leakage from the containment field," Tuvok responded calmly.

"And where might the goddamn containment field be?" Tom felt his frustration rising anew but didn't really mind. It was still better than another panic attack.

"That distance is still undetermined," Tuvok replied in typical Vulcan manner.

Tom rolled his eyes. "Geez, thanks a lot, Tuvok!"

The Vulcan glanced back for a moment. Tom could more feel than see an arched eyebrow rising even higher. "I do not know what you expect from me, Mr. Paris."

"No," Tom replied with a soft, self-ironic laughter, "of course you don't. How could you? You're a Vulcan, after all."

Unsurprisingly, no answer came. Trying to lighten the mood with a lame joke in the company of a Vulcan – and an exceptionally stiff one like Tuvok – was a feeble attempt anyway. They climbed some more in silence and finally, after what seemed another eternity, they came up to a tunnel that was more or less level, with hundreds of shafts leading almost straight upward from smooth, oval entrances near the floor.

Tom briefly wondered whether there once had been times when the Ocampa had regularly visited the surface. Why else would they have needed so many upward shafts? Perhaps these tunnels had only been sealed when the Kazon first appeared on the planet? That was something worth finding out. Later. When they'd found Harry.

"We better split up," Tom said. "There are hundreds of these things, and, to borrow the favourite statement of the alien, not enough time."

"That is a logical conclusion," the Vulcan agreed. "However, I am not sure it would be wise to leave you alone, Mr. Paris. You seem to be… uncomfortable in closed spaces."

"If you mean that I'm claustrophobic, you are right," Tom replied through clenched teeth. "But that has never stopped me before, so don't worry, just let's hurry up!"

"Strange," the Vulcan mused, following him with measured steps, "that you had no… difficulties with _very_ small cockpits."

"Those are usually attached to some vessel that can fly freely in big, empty spaces," Tom pointed out. "Besides, I know that I can get out any time I want." _And if you dare to ask about prison, I'll shoot you and leave your corpse behind to rot in these godforsaken tunnels_, he added for himself.

Fortunately, Tuvok was careful enough not to ask, and they reached the first open shaft. Tom thrust the tricorder through the opening and waited, holding his breath. The small instrument blipped dispassionately, acknowledging the ever-present containment field, but… it made a different sound this time!

"I think I found something," Tom said softly and ducked to step under the cool, damp shaft, fighting another panic attack as this shaft was hardly wide enough for a person to climb up another metal staircase. The surface of the tricorder screen switched to a biological configuration. A steadily pulsing light in the upper right corner clearly showed someone's erratic heartbeat, and below that, in Starfleet-issue block letters, stood simply: HUMAN.

"They're in this one!" Tom called out to Tuvok. "At least Harry surely is." He pulled himself uncomfortably into the narrow chamber and craned his neck to try and see something… anything. "Harry?"

No answer, just the hollow echo of his own voice. He didn't back out of the tunnel, however, and hit his elbow painfully as he activated his comm badge. "Paris to Janeway!"

"Go ahead," came the immediate answer.

"They're in one of the shafts, Captain," Tom reported. "I can't see them," he checked his readings again, "but they're definitely up there We're going after them."

"Call for transport, when you have them, Paris," Janeway ordered. "We'll meet you on the ship. Janeway out."

"Yes, Ma'am," Tom, already clambering on hands and knees up the metal stairs, answered sarcastically, not caring that she won't hear him anyway God, he hated these narrow shafts, he was barely able to breathe. _Well, the faster you climb, the quicker you will find Harry and can beam out of this… this empty grave…_

* * *

The rest of the landing party was beamed out immediately, and Chakotay requested a transfer to his own ship until B'Elanna and the Starfleet Ensign were found. He didn't like to leave the task to those two traitors, but he realized he had no other choice. He couldn't follow them, as he didn't even know in which of the couple of hundred shafts they were stuck. At least aboard the _Crazy Horse_ he could do something useful.

He sent the Andorian woman to help with the repairs and returned to the bridge for a short debriefing. Needless to say that he was _not_ happy to learn about Seska's actions. Ayala, however, only shrugged at his fuming.

"Leave it be, Chak. You know how stubborn she is once she gets one of her ideas. Besides, it all turned out well, didn't it?"

"I'm not so sure," replied Chakotay grimly. "Where is that Kazon boy… what's his name again?"

"Rettik. And he's not a boy, Chak, at least not biologically. He's an adult by all but social respect – and he'd do anything to earn that respect and be accepted by his own people as an equal. _Including_ selling us out to the best bidder… or cutting your throat in your sleep."

"Where's he now?" Chakotay asked. Ayala lifted a heavy shoulder.

"In the cargo bay… or what's left of it. I had Jackson force him under the sonic shower – he stank, you know – and we are trying to keep him as far from our technology as possible."

"That's probably a good idea," Chakotay nodded. "I'm not happy to have him here, but we can't change it. We _might_ need the protection of the Kazon, if for nothing else than crossing their territory unmolested. But to tell the truth, I don't trust them. And after having talked to the Ocampa, I don't like them either. Not at all."

"They are about as pleasant a company as a bunch of drunken Klingons," Ayala agreed. "With the little difference that they are desperate and don't have much to lose. Watch your back around them, Cap."

"I will," Chakotay promised. "Now, let's see those repair logs…"

They were checking the state of the repairs for the next few minutes. They seemed to make promising headway; still, Chakotay was not entirely satisfied. But at the moment he couldn't help things – not without Torres anyway. He could only hope that Paris and that Vulcan spy would find her in time.

"I guess things are going as well as it can be expected," he finally said. "Keep an eye on the repairs, Greg, and call me in the moment B'Elanna is found."

Ayala shot him a knowing look. "While you go and intimidate the hell out of our… _guest_?"

"Greg," Chakotay said with a wolfish grin, "you have no idea how right you are."

"I think I do," replied Ayala to his Captain's retreating back; and indeed, he did. He had known Chakotay since their early childhood, being a Dorvan V citizen himself (even though his own parents were a little less bound to tradition than Kolopak's family) and knew that Chakotay needed an outlet for his anger once in a while, or he couldn't keep his calm in tense situations. That Kazon youth was in for the surprise of his life.

* * *

Rettik was pacing in the small, empty cargo bay of the alien ship like a caged predator, still fuming over his recent humiliation. The strangers had forced him into some narrow cell – and that without his clothes! – and switched on some… apparatus that removed the protective layers of grease from his hair and skin! Had he needed to return to the planet in this condition, the harsh sunlight would have damaged him irreparably. When they finally gave him back his clothes, he realized with disgust that they, too, were changed somehow – the typical scent of his tribe and home had been removed and they smelled faintly like… like nothing he knew. And then they put him into this empty room and refused to let him out! How was he supposed to keep an eye on that treacherous female if he couldn't get out?

The doors swooshed open and the big, quiet man with that strange pattern on his temple – Rettik remembered him being in that first landing party of the aliens – entered. He moved with the predatory grace of a _shagrat_, the large hunting cats of another planet Rettik had visited with his tribe many years ago, and his dark eyes were cold, his face unreadable.

For an endless moment, the alien leader glared at Rettik with snake-like intensity, and the young Kazon needed all his willpower not to squirm under his scrutiny.

"My name is Chakotay," the alien finally said in a surprisingly soft voice. "I am the captain of this ship, and frankly, I'm not happy to have you here. I don't trust you any further than I could throw you, and I know you would kill me without a moment of hesitation if you thought it would serve your interests. So I'll warn you only this one time: should _anyone_ of my crew come to harm because of you, I'll kill you with my own hands. Slowly and very, _very_ painfully. Am I understood?"

Rettik gulped nervously. He could see in those cold eyes that the man meant what he said. All the young Kazon was able to do was to nod. To his utter, furious embarrassment, the alien patted his face like a child's.

"Good boy. Remember this, and…" he was interrupted by the chirping of his comm badge. "Chakotay here."

"They have them, Cap," Ayala reported. "They were beamed right into _Voyager_'s sickbay. Do you want to get over there?"

"Sure. On my way to the transporter room. Have someone ready. Chakotay out."

And, without any further word, he left, leaving a fuming and thoroughly humiliated Rettik behind.

* * *

Chakotay was beamed directly into _Voyager_'s sickbay and found it surprisingly crowded. Bendera, Chell and Yosa were still undergoing treatment in a separate room, while Gerron was on his way to getting better, though still weak and miserable. The Betazoid woman Chakotay had seen earlier was still lying in the Intensive Care area, heavily sedated, while Tom Paris, having apparently gone through decon and a quick sonic shower after his tour in the Ocampan tunnels, was checking some incubator units in which small, greyish-blue creatures, who looked surprisingly like fish, were squirming against the feeding and breathing tubes attached to their tiny bodies.

B'Elanna and the Starfleet ensign – _Kim_, Chakotay remembered, _his name is Harry Kim_ – were lying on two examination tables, while the Vulcan nurse was giving the Ocampa doctor something like a crash course in Federation medicine. Chakotay shuddered, seeing the two new patients. The condition of Bendera and the others, when the illness had first befallen them, _had_ prepared him what to expect; still, he hadn't thought that Torres and Kim would look quite so awful.

Tumorous growths covered their arms and necks, their faces were sallow, with dark rings under sunken eyes. Their skin, especially that of the young man, had faded to the colour of dried paper. And Chakotay suddenly became afraid that they had found them too late.

"Can they still be helped?" he asked Sito who appeared quietly on his side.

The Bajoran nodded. "It won't be easy. Their condition is much worse than the others'. The illness is full blown and virulent. But T'Prena hopes that we could use some of the Ocampa medicine to support the treatment. It would be so much easier if we could bring the EMH online – it has been programmed with the knowledge of 200 of the best doctors of the Federation or so…"

"Then let B'Elanna work on it," Chakotay suggested. "That would keep her from crawling up the walls from the sheer frustration of being caged – and there's a good chance that she could get the program fixed."

"I hope the Fleeters will let her," Sito replied seriously. "T'Prena is all right, all she cares for is healing her patients, but the others… I don't know."

Chakotay shrugged. "I can't believe they wouldn't want their doctor back.. even with the Ocampa around."

"Are they staying?" Sito asked, watching the gentle, elderly alien doctor and his straw-blonde daughter with interest.

"For a while anyway," Chakotay answered absent-mindedly. "What are those little creatures Paris is looking after?"

"Benzite babies," Sito answered. "Apparently, their chief engineer was pregnant and died when the Caretaker abducted _Voyager_. The little ones had to be delivered prematurely."

Chakotay glanced over to the incubators in surprise. "They look like fish."

"They are… in a sense," Sito yawned and rubbed her eyes wearily. "It seems that they are amphibians. The babies have gills, which they would lose during their growth, as their lungs take form. The problem is, nobody knows much about their species."

"So, they might die, after all," Chakotay murmured. "And even if they don't, they'll be the only ones of their kind on board. How can the Fleeters hope to bring them up properly, in case we are struck in the Delta Quadrant?"

"What else could they do, let them die?" Sito shrugged. "This is not our concern, Chakotay. We should see that we get our people fixed and back on the _Crazy Horse_ as soon as possible."

"Don't you feel sorry for the little fishheads?" Chakotay asked in surprise. Sito was usually a lot more sensitive than that.

"Of course I do," the Bajoran replied, "but my first responsibility, here and now, is our sick and injured people. I can't afford to be sidetracked by other concerns. _I've_ insisted that they be brought here – _I must_ see that they get healed and the hell out of here before Captain Perfect changes her mind about cooperation."

"You don't trust her sincerity, do you?" Chakotay asked with a wry grin.

"I don't trust _anyone_ in Starfleet above the rank of ensign anymore," Sito replied matter-of-factly. "I was willing to die or risk prison camp because Jean-Luc Picard asked me to go on a suicide mission. I trusted him and was willing to do _anything_ to earn _his_ trust and respect. But only a little later, that same man plotted against our people and very nearly manipulated Ro Laren into undermining the Maquis… I've lost my trust in Starfleet for good."

Chakotay nodded in understanding. Most Maquis who had formerly been in Starfleet had lost their illusions in similar ways.

"Well, our transporter is finally back online at least," he murmured, "and Ayala keeps a constant lock on all of us."

"That might not be enough," Sito replied tiredly, "but still better than nothing. Now, if you don't mind, I think T'Prena needs me."

With that, she walked away to help the Vulcan nurse talk Janeway into allowing the Ocampa to remain on board for a while and to consider including their medicine in the treatment. Chakotay, unable to get closer to B'Elanna at the moment, chose to visit the other patients instead – even if that meant to endure Paris' presence.

"How are you doing, Gerry?" he asked the kid, not really expecting any answer and carefully avoiding touching him. Gerron would only allow Ken Dalby to do that, his ersatz father in the Maquis.

To Chakotay's surprise, Gerron risked a shy look at him and even something akin to an uncertain smile flickered across the kid's flawless face.

"Better," he said softy. "Still hurts, but… better."

"That's good to hear," Chakotay smiled. Gerry was so cute, frowning and trying to regain his speech patterns. This was the first time they had heard _any_ articulate word from him since they had rescued him from the prison camp – a big step toward healing.

"Too long," Gerron added sadly. "Want back."

"I know you want to come back," Chakotay said patiently. "We miss you, too, especially Ken and Mariah. But you need to heal first. You were injured pretty badly. We can't help you on the _Crazy Horse_ as well as these people can here."

Gerron nodded, a little sadly, but understanding the necessity. He was a bright kid. He could have had a promising future, had the Federation not sold his home planet to the Cardassians. But at least it was comforting that he seemed to come out of his deep trauma – even if it had required an even bigger shock to shake him out of the original one which had rendered him speechless.

Chakotay gave the kid an encouraging grin and walked over to the others.

"How are _you_ doing?" he asked Bendera, routinely shutting out Chell's nervous prattle.

"We're getting better, too," Kurt rolled up his sleeve, showing Chakotay his forearm; the thick growths were definitely getting smaller. "We were luckier than B'Elanna and that Fleet kid – they look a _lot_ worse than we ever did."

"Is the treatment very… unpleasant?" Chakotay asked. Bendera shrugged.

"It hurts," he explained stoically, "_and_ it makes us sick afterwards. I never knew I could puke so much… but at least it seems to work. That Vulcan nurse says the EMH would probably come up with something better, if they could iron out the glitches in its personality subroutines."

"Maybe B'Elanna could help," said Chakotay. "She's the best I've ever seen. _And_ being occupied would keep her in a much more cooperative mood."

"Yeah, but the question is: would they let her?" Bendera asked, doubt clearly written in his rugged face.

"We'll see," Chakotay replied. "Take care, Kurt. I want you – all of you – back on board, as soon as possible. I don't completely trust Captain Perfect and her shiny olive branch."

"You'd be a fool if you did," said Bendera grimly. "But what about Plan B? Have you given up on it entirely?"

"No; that's why I had everyone pack their bags and keep them in the transporter room," Chakotay answered.

"Well, what are you waiting for then?" Bendera asked.

Chakotay flashed at him a devious grin. "An invitation."

* * *

Having checked on the Benzite babies, Tom Paris walked over to the Intensive Care Area (ICA) to see how Stadi was doing. The Betazoid was lying motionless, her eyes closed, but a barely recognizable mental brush revealed that she was coming to. Tom stepped up to her biobed, once again wondering briefly how the designers could come up with something this uncomfortable for sick and suffering people, and took a limp hand in his own.

"How are you feeling, Stadi?" he asked gently. Stadi swallowed hard.

"As if I had been stomped over by an Allurian mammoth," she whispered. "Water…?"

"Be careful," Tom warned, easing the plastic tube from the water flask between her dry lips. "Just small sips… and don't drink too much. You've just had a serious operation a few hours ago."

"What… happened?" Stadi obediently let go of the water tube after a few sips.

"Your spinal column was broken, after the displacement wave had hit us," Tom answered, hesitating for a moment. He didn't know how much he should tell her, but he was determined not to lie. That would do no good; he just didn't know whether this was the right time for the whole ugly truth or not. "I'm afraid me moving you right after that didn't help, either," he added ruefully. He _had_ realized his mistake, of course – only too late, like so many times before.

Stadi squeezed his hand weakly. "You tried to help. It was an… understandable mistake. One that I, too, would probably… have made in your… place…"

"Yeah, but _you_ are not a field medic," Tom pointed out. "I should have known better. I just… I guess I panicked at that moment."

Stadi squeezed his hand again, feeling his guilt and anguish clearly. "Tom… it's okay. Tell me… am I paralyzed?"

"Afraid so. Stadi, I'm so sorry…"

"Don't be. It wasn't your fault. I'm... not a doctor, but… it probably happened when I… hit the deck with my head. How bad… is it?"

"You'll be able to move your arms and shoulders," Tom replied sorrowfully, "but below that…"

"I see…" Stadi was quiet for a while. "At least… this leaves me with some semblance of… independence. How long till… my eyesight comes back?"

"Couple of days," Tom guessed. "probably a week or two. It depends on the tissue regeneration. T'Prena says it's better if we let your eyes recover on their own, and you're pumped full of medicine anyway."

"Mhm…she's right," Stadi was tiring rapidly, but something was nagging on her consciousness still. "Have you any… idea why I'm… feeling alien… presences all around me?"

"You are probably sensing the Ocampa," Tom explained. "They are a new species we have just met. Nice people; apparently telepathic, too."

"Oh… that explains it…" Stadi drifted off, feeling heavy and so very tired again. "I think… I'll sleep now…"

"That would probably be the best," Tom murmured, giving her hand a squeeze then laying it back on her unfeeling midriff. "You'll need your strength when it comes time to fully realize what happened."

* * *

In the main area Janeway, Chakotay and the medical personnel finally came to an understanding. It was decided that they would try to combine the treatment that T'Prena had already started by the other patients with the Ocampa medication, and that during their stay in sickbay Kim and Torres would try to work out the glitch in the EMH's subroutines.

"I hope for them that they can fix the EMH," T'Prena said, out of their earshot , "as they are in a much worse condition than the three Maquis who have been sent over to us. I am not entirely certain that the same treatment would be effective in their case."

"You mean we can still lose them?" Tom asked, joining them.

He got a few unfriendly looks, but he didn't care. As long as T'Prena accepted him as her medical assistant, there was little anyone – even the captain – could do. Quite simply, they _needed_ him. Currently, he was the best-qualified medic on board.

"That is exactly what I mean, Mr. Paris," T'Prena answered matter-of-factly.

"We will stay and help with your ill people as well as we can," the Ocampa doctor promised. "Sadly, we know no treatment, but at least we are familiar enough with the symptoms."

"Are you not needed down there?" Chakotay asked quietly. "What if Toscat…"

The Ocampa gave him a gentle smile. "He will not leave before my work here is done. We have a certain… control in this matter. Besides, he can always call out to me mentally, and thanks to this… technology of yours, I can return to him immediately. Unless the Caretaker chooses to interfere," he added with the same resigned acceptance with which most older Ocampa spoke about the alien.

Remembering the entity's strangely distracted behaviour, Chakotay shook his head thoughtfully. "Somehow I believe he'll be otherwise occupied."

"I hope so," the doctor replied seriously. "I am determined to learn all I can about how to heal this illness… in case that knowledge might be needed in the future."

Chakotay grinned at him in sympathy. Apparently, most species had their version of the Hippocratic Oath. Even in the Delta Quadrant.

Janeway, having finished her discussion with the ragtag medical team, now stepped up to him, laying a hand on his forearm.

"Chakotay, I'd like to speak with you, if you have a moment. In private," she added.

Chakotay willed himself not to flinch. He didn't like being touched by strangers, but this was not the moment to discuss the issue of personal space.

"Of course, captain," he replied, looking around the slightly overpopulated sickbay. "Ummm… here?"

Janeway grinned. "Let's go to my ready room," she suggested.

They rode the turbolift and stepped out onto the bridge four decks higher. Lt. Rollins was still in charge, and Janeway wawed him to remain in the command chair a little longer.

"Have a seat," she gestured towards the sofa once they reached her ready room and stepped to the replicator. "Can I get you something?"

"Tarkalian tea, please," Chakotay answered. He'd have preferred herbal tea, but the blend he usually drank would require special programming. Janeway ordered him the drink then got herself a coffee – black and plain – and finally sat down on the other side of the table.

"So, how are your repairs going?" she asked. "The truth, please."

Chakotay shrugged. "It's a slow process," he admitted reluctantly. "but we are definitely making some headway. If we only had Torres back…"

He stopped, realizing that he had just given her a serious advantage. _I must be more tired than I thought._

Janeway nodded, in a seemingly absent manner, but Chakotay was sure that she had recognized his lapse as well.

"Have you considered what we should do, in case we are unable to persuade this… _Caretaker_ to send us home?" she asked.

Chakotay shook his head slowly. "Haven't had much time to think about it," he answered with a half-truth. "We've been too busy trying to keep the ship in one piece."

"You won't be able to survive on the _Crazy Horse_ for long, should we be trapped in the Delta Quadrant," Janeway pointed out, watching him like a hawk. "Without a functional Warp drive you can't even hope to search for an M-class planet to start a colony."

"We could always stay with the Ocampa," Chakotay said, deliberately _not_ getting the hind. "They are a friendly people. And they certainly could use our help with keeping their city running and the Kazon out of it. _Or_ we could side up with the Kazon and get transported from here to a planet where we can live. There _are_ possibilities."

"Every single one of which violates the Prime Directive," Janeway emphasized. Chakotay shrugged again.

"That's true. But frankly, Captain, I don't care, and neither do my people. We're not Starfleet. We're not even Federation citizens anymore. The Federation abandoned us, sold us to the Cardassians. Why should we care for Federation law?"

"And what if I offered you a different solution?" Janeway asked. "Not a perfect one, but maybe a better one?"

"Go on," Chakotay said with a frown.

"You could join _Voyager,_" Janeway proposed. "We took heavy casualties as you know, and are in dire need of people to operate our ship. And let's face it, _yours_ is a wreck."

"That she is," Chakotay admitted, "but do you really expect me to make it _this_ for you easy to capture us all?"

Janeway suppressed an impatient sigh. "Really, Comm… Captain, do you think that's my first priority right now? Right here? Seventy thousand light years from home?"

"No," the Maquis leader said. "I know that first and foremost you want to get us home. All of us. You're Starfleet, it's part of your training. But should we manage to get home, with or without the alien's help – assuming the _Crazy Horse_ could survive another transfer in her present condition at all – the same training would kick in again, and you'd do everything in your power to get us into a Federation prison. Or am I mistaken?"

To her credit, she held his glare without a flinch.

"No, you are not," she replied with the same blunt honesty. Chakotay nodded.

"Thought so. And this, Captain, is the exact reason why I can't trust you. We are uneasy allies only as long as we are here, in the Delta Quadrant. Back home, we'd become hunter and prey again – and right now, the prey is wounded, much more than the hunter. I can't take any risks."

For a moment, Janeway remained silent, obviously not used to such flat-out refusals from anyone but her immediate superiors.

"I see," she finally said. "Where does it leave us, then?"

Chakotay shrugged. "Where we have been from the beginning; since we ended up here: uneasy allies at best."

"Does this mean that you won't even think about my offer?" she asked.

"I will," he replied, "but whether I accept or not depends on if we can get home in the direct way or not. Actually, even if we can't I'll have to consider very carefully what's best for my people."

"Without us, you have no hope of getting home, one way or another," Janeway pointed out, not entirely without satisfaction. "I can't believe you would rather stay here in the Delta Quadrant."

"Oh, I do want to get home all right," Chakotay replied, "and so do my people. After all, we still have a war to fight… on two fronts. But we won't be much help for our cause rotting in a Federation prison. So yeah, if it comes to a choice, I prefer living free in the Delta Quadrant to serving a lifelong sentence for high treason back home."

"Surely you are exaggerating!" Janeway shook her head in disbelief. "It won't be more than a couple of years…"

"Even that would be more than what any of us would want," Chakotay interrupted. "But you are mistaken, Captain. Those of us who used to be Fleet, like Sito or myself, wouldn't get away easily. You wouldn't have put that Vulcan spy on my ship, had the brass not feared me. What I know of their precious secrets. What I could do with that knowledge. Remember, Captain, I used to _teach_ advanced tactical training at the Academy. I'm not your average Maquis cell leader."

"Which is exactly why I'd like you on my ship," Janeway countered without a beat. "I could put your abilities to much better use."

Chakotay grinned. "You are nothing if not persistent, I have to give you _that_. As I said, I'll think about it – _if_ it turns out that we can't get home the easy way. But even then, I'll keep other alliances in mind. Whatever serves the interests of my people best, I'll accept. Good day, Captain."

TBC


End file.
